Seafood and Other Stories

By Andre Farant


Copyright 2012 Andre Farant

Smashwords Edition



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www.andrefarant.com




Also by Andre Farant

Frozen Dinner
Deepest Quiet
Deer Lake: A Novel
High Art




Table of Contents


Burden
Seafood
The New Landlord
Out of Body
Birth Day
Contact Andre
Deer Lake Preview




SEAFOOD and OTHER STORIES




Burden


I lean forward and readjust Collin's arms around my neck. Ten years old but he weighs a ton.
"Hang on, buddy."
We left over three hours ago and, at this pace, I estimate we have another five hours' hike before we reach the road. We won't make it before nightfall.
Maybe we should have remained at the tent, waited for someone to come along. No; we could have been there for days.
Loose rocks shift under my feet. Pebbles skitter down the embankment to the lake shore ten feet below.
On the water, the empty rowboat floats a hundred yards from shore, its broken tether dangling like the world's worst fishing line. The boat drifts along, following me, taunting me. I consider swimming out to it, but know I wouldn't be able to make it with Collin on my back and don't want to leave him alone.
"Okay, buddy, I gotta take a break."
I shift Collin off my back, unhook his hands from around my neck, and set him down on a grassy patch.
His eyes have come open again. Why do they keep doing that? I brush my hand over them, feel his eyelids lower.
I stroke his hair, try to hide the bloody divot where his skull struck the stone.
I never should have sent him up there, to see if he could spot the lost boat. I should have been more aware, more careful, but he'd always been such a good little tree-climber. Like a monkey.
After a moment, I hoist him into position. His limbs are stiff but still flexible, like pipe cleaners. I check the twine linking his wrists at the base of my throat, set my hands under his thighs, and resume our trek.
He seems to be growing heavier by the second, but I can't leave him behind. His mother will want to see him—one last time.




Seafood

Originally published on Micro Horror and in Daily Frights


The waves gnaw at the shore and slaver over my feet as I follow the beach. At the end of the sand crescent, the shipwreck squats, bleached bone grey. I clamber over the splintered gunwale. Despite the ocean's proximity, the cabin is warm and dry. It smells of dust and ancient leather.
A corpse slumps over scattered bones. The corpse's skin is tight, papery as an onion's. The bones are gnawed, emptied of marrow.
Turning from the funereal tableau, I find the ship's manifest. Its brittle pages list no livestock, no meat stores, and a crew of eight.




The New Landlord

Originally published on Weird Year and in Daily Frights


As Edwin reached for the coffee mug it leapt out of the drying rack, flew across the kitchen, and crashed against the far wall. 
Edwin stood very still. 
Moving slowly, he turned off the flow of water into the sink. He took a step away from the counter and toward the doorway.
A plate, spotted with food and dripping dish water, rose from the sink, hovered, and came at him as though shot from a cannon. Edwin dodged to the left, feeling the air split open an inch from his right ear. China shards stung his face and neck like a swarm of hornets.
Still crouched, he made a run for the doorway. Unseen but powerful hands gripped him by the throat, slammed him against the wall. He felt a man's body press up against him, though he saw no one.
Warm breath tickled his ear.
"Hear that?" The voice was deep, cold. "That's the sound of the shower running upstairs. Your wife, Shannon's in there."
"Wh—H?"
"Shut up, Ed. You know that's been my favourite part of the day for the past week, watching you wife take her shower? I'm skipping that for you, Ed." A snort, derisive. "You don't deserve a woman like that. You don't deserve this house, either."
"Who are you?" Edwin said.
"Just a man. A man making the best of an accident."
"Accident?"
The invisible fingers tightened around his throat. "You really need to focus, Ed."
"What do you want?"
"This house. This house and maybe . . ." The voice trailed off, leaving behind only the distant sound of the shower.
Summoning courage he did not feel, Edwin said, "I'll call the—" 
"The police?" The voice laughed. "And what're you going to tell them, Ed? 'There's an invisible man in my house and he won't leave?' Sure. Yeah. Try that." The nearby phone popped off its wall mount and seemed to float before his eyes. "Go ahead."
The phone clattered to the floor.
A sob escaped Edwin's throat.
"Don't cry, Ed," the voice said and Edwin was abruptly released.
His knees failed him and he sat hard on the floor, his back to the wall.
"Look, this is my house now." The intruder's voice faded; he had left the kitchen. "And you're welcome to stay." The stairs creaked; the stairs leading to the second floor, to the bathroom, where the shower was still running. "But I'll warn you," the voice said, "the rent is steep."




Out of Body

Originally published in The Eclectic Flash Literary Journal


All day, every day, she staggers through the neighbourhood. She stops at every sound, her eyes searching, moving. Unlike more efficient hunters, her sense of smell is terrible, just as it had been in life. I wonder if she could starve, just fade away.
Her condition and appearance worsen by the day. Her skin has turned the pasty pink of suet and her teeth have taken on the appearance of animal horn. Tiny tusks jutting out of her blackened gums. Oddly, her hair causes me the greatest heartache. Her hair is greasy and lank, falling out in clumps, leaving raw-looking bald patches behind. I'd spent so much time and effort caring for that hair.
She comes across an injured dog. The mutt limps away as fast as it can, but she falls upon the animal with a speed that bellies her necrotic state. She tears into the dog's throat with those tusk-like teeth. The dog yelps, it whines, it kicks, and it lays still. She continues to feed, blood running down her chin and onto her shirt. I turn away, repulsed and embarrassed.
As she walks past Fred Hillary's old place, I hear a voice. She hears it too, and her rotting face swivels toward Fred's house. The front door is open and a man is standing there.
"Nancy?"
Tom. 
"Oh god, Nancy. It is you."
He looks so happy and, for a moment, I think he can see me. But, with a fear that would have turned my stomach if I'd still had one, I realize he is looking at her.
He is smiling. He takes a step forward. Can't he see she isn't me? Can't he see she is no longer me?
No, Tom! Get back in the house, I shout but I have no voice.
He jogs forward and, as the smile fades from his face, she lunges at him. He screams and turns away, but he is too slow. She grabs him by the shoulders, pulls him to her chest, and buries those horn-teeth into his neck.
His scream is choked with blood. My scream is silent. 
Tom collapses and she kneels beside him. 
An older man appears in the doorway. "Tom?" says Fred Hillary. "Oh, Christ, no." Fred shoulders his rifle and fires. The bullet tears a hole the size of a lemon through her head and she collapses next to Tom.
Fred rushes to Tom's side but he is far too late.
I watch as my husband dies, lying next to her, lying next to what remains of my body.
I look to the sky. I hope to see a bright light, to see laughing relatives and smiling ancestors. I hope to see Tom.




Birth Day

Originally published in the Midwest Literary Magazine and the Off Season anthology


She stands before him, the box cradled in both hands. Her smile is broad and proud. In the box, he knows, is a birthday cake. He sees her open the box, pull back the lid like a jeweller unveiling her finest piece, and inside is a foetus. Red and wet as a skinned squirrel, curled up like a bloody question mark.
"We made it together," she says, "but it's just for you."
He blinks and the kitchen spins, slow as a clock's minute hand.
"Happy birthday," she says, still smiling.
The lid comes up, revealing a beige slab the shape and size of a hardcover novel.
"Carrot cake. Your favourite."
He nods then tilts his head back, stares at her. "Did you do it for me? Because it's what I wanted?"
Her mouth opens, about to speak, and shuts again. Her smile wilts as realization blooms. No, he projects with his eyes. I'm not talking about the cake.
She lowers the box, shielding her lower abdomen.
"No. I didn't do it just for you. Neither of us—I wasn't ready either."
"You're sure?"
The cake box trembles and the lid floats down, obscuring the brick of flour, egg and sugar.
"Yes," she says.
"So why're you crying?"
She laughs. "I just—one of your gifts . . . It was supposed to be funny."
"What?"
"It's terrible."
He stands, takes the box from her, places it on the table. Her shoulders relax under his fingers.
"What is it?" he says.
Her laugh is half sob. "A box of condoms."
It's his turn to laugh, and he pulls her to him.
"That settles it then," he whispers.
She nods against his chest.
The box lid has come open again and inside is just a cake.





Contact Andre


Thank you, first off, for reading High Art. I’d love to know what you thought of it or any of my stories.

Reach me at andre@andrefarant.com

Find me on my website www.andrefarant.com

Friend me on Facebook

Follow me on Twitter

And read the rest of my work on Smashwords

Thanks again and hope to hear from you.

Now, please check out the first three chapters of my novel, Deer Lake, available as of February, 2012.




Deer Lake Preview


Deer Lake is a hilarious crime thriller—basically Jaws if it had been written by Carl Hiaasen or Janet Evanovich and set in Quebec cottage country.

Here’re the first three chapters of Deer Lake. Enjoy.



Deer Lake is copyright 2012 Andre Farant



Deer Lake


PROLOGUE


Mary and Alan Demers were happy. They had been married for all of thirty-eight hours and were basking in their shared marital bliss. 
They stood at a lookout built by the Deer Lake Cottager’s Co-op at the top of a cliff, overlooking the jewel-like lake. Alan breathed deeply, noting the absence of the exhaust fumes and cigarette smoke that permeated every cubic inch of Detroit’s atmosphere. “It’s absolutely gorgeous here.”
Mary nodded. “Mmm, beautiful.”
They stood behind the wooden safety railing, Mary’s arm around Alan’s waist, his arm encircling her shoulders. They could count the islands dotting the lake (six). Sailboats, tiny from such heights, glided silently upon the still surface. Without saying a word, the happy couple scanned the waters, looking for a tell-tale ripple, a hint of the lake’s claim-to-fame.
“Ouch,” Alan slapped at his neck. “Damned mosquitoes.”
“Oh, babe, poor thing,” Mary said.
“The mosquito?”
“No, silly, you.”
“Mm, I guess maybe I’ll need a warm bath to help keep the swelling down. Maybe you’d like to join me, hm?”
Mary wasn’t listening.
“Alan, what is that?”
“What, did you see it?” Alan said, scanning the lake.
“No, no, there.” Mary pointed straight down to the base of the cliff where the water lapped at a narrow beach. Alan leaned over the railing, squinting. It was pale and lumpy, its size difficult to gauge from their current vantage point. It was caught on a tangle of branches overhanging the shallows. The thing was half in and half out of the water, rocked back and forth by the lake’s lazy waves. 
“I’m not sure what it is,” Alan said.
“Here,” Mary pulled her digital camera from its carrying case, “I’ll use the zoom.”
She brought the device to her eye and zoomed in on the thing. It took her a few moments to find it.
“Oh, god,” she breathed, nearly dropping the camera. “It’s a person.”
“What?” 
“Alan, it looks like a person.” Mary handed her husband the camera.
He focused on the pale form. “I think you’re right, hun. That looks like a shirt, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, I think that’s what’s got him caught on the branch. His shirt. I think I saw his arm, too.”
“Yeah.” Alan nodded. “I see it.”
“Oh, god, Alan . . . What do we do?”
Alan stared at her, his mind a blank. Alan was quality-control manager for one of Michigan’s largest discount toy manufacturers. The company’s biggest client built and rented out claw vending machines. The toys housed in claw vending machines were not known for their quality. Consequently, Alan was rarely pressed to find solutions to difficult problems.
“Um,” he said, eyes wide. “We could blow our whistles.”
As a kindergarten teacher, Mary was inordinately patient and completely immune to stupid answers. “No, Alan. We have to go see if he’s okay.”
“Um,” Alan said. “I’m pretty sure he isn’t.”
“Well, we have to check. It took us hours to get up here. By the time we got back to the cottage, or the village, he could be dead.”
“Um,” Alan repeated. The word seemed to best express his feelings. He peered down at the pale lump floating in the water. “What if he’s already dead?”
“It couldn’t hurt to check,” Mary said.
Uh, yeah it could, Alan thought. It could hurt a lot.
He realized she had given him his way out: “But, like you said, it took us hours to get up here. How could I possibly get down to him in time to help? I can’t teleport down there.”
Mary sighed. While they were dating, as a way to get to know each other better, Alan had asked Mary which super power she would want if she could have any power at all. She had chosen the ability to speak and read all and any languages throughout history and the world. He had informed her that this particular ability, though impressive, did not constitute a super power. He had chosen teleportation, which was, in his esteem, a proper super power. They did not talk about it again.
Now Mary examined the cliff side. Her eyes settled on a densely wooded section of the cliff some fifty yards to the left.
“Right there, go down there,” she said.
Alan stared. Um. It was not as steep as the sheer drop that lay directly beneath them, but it was still pretty damned steep. 
“Mary, if I go down that way I’m gonna end up like that guy. Heck, for all I know it’s how he ended up down there in the first place.”
“Don’t be silly, Alan.”
He looked from her to the trees. There were a lot of trees. He could hang on to them as he climbed down those boulders.
“Okay. Fine, I’ll try,” he said with all the enthusiasm of one announcing that he had won a free kick to the back of the head.
Mary pulled his face to hers and kissed him, long and hard. “I am so proud of you,” she said. “And kinda turned on.”
“Really?” Alan said, standing straighter.
“Mm-hm. It’s very brave. Heroic.”
Alan grinned like the proverbial idiot, pulled off his backpack, and set out for the wooded area.
He stumbled over a few stones, tripped over a branch and found himself hugging the trunk of a poplar. He no longer felt heroic.
Alan Demers pushed off the poplar and began his descent, moving slowly, from tree to tree.
He gripped a sturdy-looking branch to steady himself as he baby-stepped over a moss-smothered boulder. He could feel the stuff slipping under his feet. Then the branch snapped, the boulder disappeared, moss and all, and he was suddenly running down the cliff face, his body nearly horizontal. Gravity carried him further, faster. He watched as trees flashed by him, branches raked his face and tore at his clothes. His fanny-pack, bouncing against his butt, came open, producing a rooster’s tail of allergy medication, breath mints, dried apricots and condoms (just in case).
A giant pine loomed ahead, its trunk like the canon on a Navy destroyer aimed at taking out the sun. That will stop me. He directed his run at the tree. He would plow straight into it and hang on to its trunk for dear life. It would work. It would hurt like a hell, but it would work and he would live to tell Mary that this whole thing was a stupid idea and that teleportation was a much better power than being able to speak and read everything which wasn’t even a power anyway.
He hit the tree.
And he was right: It hurt like a hell.
And he was wrong: The tree did not stop him. In fact, the tree simply hitched a ride. As he hit the conifer, so strong and solid looking, Alan, now an Alan-shaped projectile, uprooted the tree and sent it tumbling ahead of him in a spray of dirt and pine needles. It came down with an ear-splitting crash, pulling smaller trees with it, sending still smaller trees flying into the air and tumbling in every direction. And in the midst of this arboreal maelstrom, Alan screamed.
Beyond the crash of trees, behind his own screams, Alan could hear a high-pitched keening. Mary had apparently seen Alan’s meeting with the big conifer, had judged that said meeting had gone poorly, and was now blowing her emergency whistle.
And so Alan Demers descended the cliff side, followed and preceded by an avalanche of forestry while, above him, standing safely behind the look-out’s wooden railing, Mary blew on her whistle and pressed the shutter on her Nikon as fast as her finger would allow, documenting her husband’s death by accidental deforestation.
After what seemed like hours but was only about forty-seven seconds, the crashing came to a halt and Alan Demers found himself lying on his back in a rather soft bed of pine needles, while dirt, leaves and twigs rained down upon him. Water sloshed just inches from his head. He sat up, cradled in the palm of one of the giant pine’s branches. The branch hung out over the water and, when he looked down through the branch’s quill-laden fingers, he saw his stunned reflection staring back at him. His face was scratched, his shirt torn to shreds and his fanny-pack was empty. But he was alive.
 Someone was calling his name. He looked around, down at the tree, out at the lake, until he remembered his wife and looked up and behind him at the top of the cliff. There was a large swath of churned earth, fallen trees, and shredded ferns where there had once been dense forestry. It looked as though God had tried to scratch-and-sniff the forest. Far above and to the left, Mary waved at him from atop the lookout. 
“Alan,” she called. “Are you okay?”
Alan said, “Um.” He cleared his throat and clambered to his feet, his legs shaky. “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay!”
“Thank god,” Mary cried and took a picture of him.
Alan took an unsteady step and promptly fell through the mesh of branches that had been holding him aloft. He slogged through a tangle of pine branches, small uprooted trees, and foot-deep lake water. Eventually, he made it to shore.
The thing floated some forty yards away. It was definitely a person. A man. Alan could clearly see the back of the man’s head, his greyish hair wet. One arm floated limply, shirt caught on a branch. The man was face down in the water, his lower body submerged, invisible.
Alan took a few steps and stopped. He craned his neck, trying to get a better look without actually getting too close.
“Is he okay?” Mary cried from above.
“Sshhhhh!” Alan said, as though the man was just sleeping and she might wake him.
“What?” Mary called.
Alan took a few more steps and said to the man, “Hey, are you okay?”
The man simply bobbed in the water, the gentle waves nudging him rhythmically.
Oh crap, Alan thought. I’ve gone thirty years without ever seeing a dead body and now, on my honeymoon . . .
After a few moments, hoping against hope that the guy might just pop out of the water, amble over and say something like, “Woah, now that was a rough night. Lemme give ya some advice friend, never mix vodka, beer and Xanax,” Alan walked to the man’s side and crouched by his head. 
The man was very dead. He looked to be at least sixty years old. Well, he had been at least sixty years old. Now he was pasty and mottled white and blue. His flesh looked like blue cheese. He smelled pretty bad, too. Up close, Alan could smell rotting meat.
“Is he dead?” Alan heard Mary ask. He looked up at her and she took another picture.
“Yeah,” he called back, marvelling at how calm he felt. My first dead body and I didn’t puke. I’m not even shaky or feeling sick or nothing.
Alan Demers decided to take his investigation a step further. He found a branch, about three feet long, and resolved—in the interest of science, both medical and forensic—to poke the dead body.  He walked to the water’s edge, scrutinized the doughy-looking thing before him and poked the dead man in the ribs. The stick did not sink into the body as though it were actually made of blue cheese. Instead, the tip of the stick snagged the dead man’s shirt and, as Alan pulled the branch back, the body flipped onto its right side, exposing the gaping hole in its left side.
The man’s shirt was torn open, the edges chewed and frayed, and the area just below the man’s ribcage was a mess of brownish blood, mangled organs and what looked like a blue cheese milkshake. 
Alan dropped the branch, stumbled back a step and fell ass-backwards into six inches of water. Then Alan felt sick, felt shaky and puked.
Far above him, Mary said, “Alan, check his pulse!”



CHAPTER ONE


Since moving to Deer Lake some two years ago, Tad Pike had made it a habit of taking his little skiff into town for weekly supplies on every Thursday. It was a short trip, taking him past several of his neighbours as well as the lake’s one and only public beach. He always moored his boat at the Deer Lake Marina, little more than a couple of docks and a bait shop, and always did his shopping at Franklin’s. This was not only due to the fact that Franklin’s Convenience was the only convenience/grocery store in town, but also because Pike genuinely liked Sam Franklin. 
Now he stood in aisle five of five, reading the ingredients listed on a can of gravy while Sam Franklin struggled over a particularly irksome crossword clue. “Thirteen down,” she said, frowning. “It says ‘Do nothing pill.’ Seven letters.”
Without taking his eyes off his can of gravy, Pike said, “Valium.”
Sam looked up at her only customer, still frowning. “Pike, I’m pretty darn sure Valium does something. Plus, it’s got six letters, not seven.”
“Just add an exclamation point. Valium! Like that.”
“Will you stop being a smart-ass and help me,” Sam said. “What’s those pills doctors use, the kind that don’t do anything?”
“Sam, you just reworded the clue.” Pike wandered over to aisle four.
“Fine. Here’s thirteen across: ‘For a beauty-queen smile.’ Nine letters.”
“Lobotomy,” Pike said. He was now reading a can of beets. The list of ingredients was disturbingly long.
Sam rolled her eyes behind her bifocals. “Dammit, Pike. Lobotomy has only eight letters.”
“Lobotomy!”
“You’re hopeless.”
“Mm, probably.”
Sam Franklin had been filling out crossword puzzles for as long as anyone had known her, dating back to the day she’d arrived in Deer Lake. Unlike most villagers over fifty, Sam was not born in Deer Lake. She had come to town some thirty years prior with a dance troop. The dancers had been hired by an ambitious though deluded show promoter hell-bent on mounting a production in Deer Lake. It was to be a musical and would capitalize on Deer Lake’s raison d’être. There had even been plans for a two-hundred-gallon water tank and state-of-the-art submersible puppet.
The show could not get proper financing and so the entire production left after just two weeks and relocated to Sand Lake where it proved a colossal failure. Those two weeks in Deer Lake, however, had been long enough for Samantha Barrister to meet and fall in love with Finnigan Franklin, owner of Franklin’s Convenience. They were married two months later and, two months after that, Finnigan, a life-long narcoleptic, fell asleep in Fred Burger’s wheat field and was promptly harvested by Fred Burger’s thresher. Sam resolved not only to stay in Deer Lake, but to take over her late husband’s family business.
She never regretted a day in her life, and certainly did not regret moving to and staying in Deer Lake. It was pleasant, quiet and allowed her plenty of time to ruminate over her beloved crossword puzzles.
Pike dumped his chosen items on the counter, next to Sam’s book of puzzles.
As she rang up his purchases, Sam asked, “You hear about Felix Prior, right?”
Pike nodded, “Sure did.”
“Too bad.”
“Yeah, he was a good man. I liked him.”
“Hear what some are saying?” 
“Nope. ’Bout what?”
“’Bout Felix, of course. His wounds.”
“I heard he was cut up. Along the side,” Pike said.
Sam nodded. “Right, big hole.”
“So what are they saying?”
“Well . . .” She cocked an eyebrow and nodded toward the front windows and the view of the lake.
Pike looked out at the lake, confused. Then he got it. “What, Deery? Oh, of course they’d say that. Whoever they are,” he chuckled. They both knew exactly who the usual suspects were. “That’s just stupid.”
“Of course. But that don’t keep ’em from saying it.”
“Boating accident. That’s all it was, trust me.”
Sam held up her hands. “Hey, you don’t have to convince me. I agree with you. I’m just saying what they’re saying. Thirty-six, Pike.”
Pike grinned and handed her two twenties. “Yeah, well, I guess they are good for a laugh, right?”
Sam returned his change along with his grin. “I sure love this little town.”
Pike nodded, said his goodbyes and headed back out to the docks.

*

Pike had moved to Deer Lake nearly two years ago with the intention of writing a screenplay and shooting the picture himself. He had grand ideas of being an independent director, darling of the festival circuit, praised for his art but loved for his eccentricities.
The problem was that he wasn’t especially artistic and, truth be told, he was only eccentric in the sense that he lived in a cottage on a lake and didn’t really work for a living. Also, his screenplay, so far, was a whopping three pages long.
So Pike had decided to combine the movie-making equipment he’d purchased with his background as a journalist and make a documentary. He had the perfect subject: the lake. He would interview the villagers, talk with tourists and cottagers, and film the lake from every possible angle. He delved into the lake’s history, researching the village’s beginnings as a lumbering town. He discovered that each of the six islands scattered across the waters had been named after a lumberman who’d died on the job. Hap Island, for example, was named after Hap Healy. Hap died in 1913 on or around Thanksgiving Day. On that particular Thanksgiving Day, the boys were sent a monstrous thirty pound turkey. Compared to their usual fare of baked beans and oatmeal, the giant bird was a real treat for the ten men of the camp, and they were more than willing to wait the twenty-some hours required to cook the beast.
Except for Hap. Hap Healy drank. All lumber men drank, of course. But Hap was the Olympic champion of sport-drinking. His favourite event was the triathlon: Beer, bourbon and wine—in no particular order. That night he had already secured himself a spot on the podium before the bird had even been plucked. By the time the turkey had made its way into the camp’s coal-fired oven, he’d set a new record. All this vigorous drinking, however, had given old Hap an appetite and worried away at his patience. So, while the others continued with their revelries, he made his way to the kitchen. He found the bird, cooking slowly and, at that point, the story became hazy. For reasons that are known to history alone, Hap decided to either insert his head into the turkey, or stick the turkey over his head. Either way, the results were the same: Hap was rendered blind and confused. His mind, swimming in a brine of beer, whiskey and cheap Chardonnay, struggled to stay afloat. The darkness, combined with the absolutely abysmal stench of the bird’s insides, proved too much for Hap’s poor pickled brain to handle. Hap’s solution proved to be a panic-induced run out of the kitchen. Somehow, after a few abortive attempts, marked by turkey-juice-stained dents in the wall, Hap found the doorway and disappeared into the forest. The last anyone saw of Hap Healy alive was a strangely top-heavy figure, arms waving, as it streaked through the woods, producing a muffled wail. Hap’s body was found five days later. He had evidently run head-long into a sturdy oak and been knocked unconscious. The entire thirty-pound turkey and half his head had been eaten by forest creatures.
The lake was rife with similarly charming stories and Pike was determined to record them all, both for posterity’s and hilarity’s sake. And, of course, there was the lake legend. He could not ignore the town’s claim to fame.
Pike wondered how Felix Prior’s death would affect his project. Prior had been less than trustworthy, most thought he was crazy, but he had always been willing to talk and had become a prime resource. Now he was dead.
So far, Pike had over thirty hours of footage and was deep into the editing process. He spent six hours a night at his editing banks, cutting scenes together, rendering images, overlaying sound effects. He still found himself gathering further shots of the lake. It inspired him.
Now he shut off and raised the little two-stroke outboard and allowed his skiff to coast onto the beach. He pulled the boat out of the water, tied it off, gathered his groceries and headed up the steps leading from the beach to his cottage.

*

At around that time, in some God-forsaken patch of the Laurentian Mountains, Willard Smitts climbed out of the truck. He wrinkled his nose as he planted his foot inches from a monstrously large pile of dog shit. At least he hoped it was dog shit.
The shack looked as though it had been built by an especially industrious group of kindergarteners. Walls stood at odd angles to each other; boards hung from rusty nails; windows were covered with torn screening and garbage bags. The roof was patched with an old car door and what appeared to be a child’s deflated wading pool.
The man named Ben sat in a lounge chair on the cabin’s rickety front porch. Smitts couldn’t see the one called Jerry. Smitts waved at Ben with his free hand; he held a black leather briefcase in the other. 
Ben did not wave back. He sipped at a can of beer. A Styrofoam cooler sat at his feet. He was short and squat, his scalp and chin covered with a perfectly even coat of stubble, giving his head the appearance of a kiwi fruit. “What you doing here?” he asked.
Smitts did not like Ben’s tone. Challenging, suspicious. Smitts shifted the briefcase from his right hand to his left. “Mr. Benning has tasked me with placing you and your associate on . . . retainer.”
Without taking his eyes off Smitts, Ben called into the shack. “Jerry, get yer ass out here.”
While Ben was garden-variety ugly, Jerry’s appearance was positively disturbing. Jerry was tall and gangly, thin limbed and narrow-chested. He was pale to the point of being translucent. He was bulgy-eyed and slack-mouthed. However, the strangest, most disconcerting aspect of Jerry’s appearance, was the perfectly square, four-by-four inch bald patch marring his hair-line. Smitts found it extremely difficult to keep his eyes off that smooth swath of skin. What the hell is with that?
Now Jerry stood next to his friend, eyes wide and mouth open.
“So,” Ben said, “Benning need us ’gain?”
“That’s right,” Smitts said. “Mr. Benning was quite satisfied with the work you completed for him and could use your assistance on a more . . . continuous basis.”
“Continuous,” Ben repeated.
“Yes,” Smitts said. “Mr. Benning would like you to employ your vast knowledge of the lake and surrounding woodland to . . . create further interest. To keep the town talking and the tourists coming.”
“What d’we do?”
Smitts took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He hated having to say what Benning insisted he say. “You would be granted full discretionary powers.”
Ben squinted back at him.
Smitts cleared his throat. “You can do whatever you want. As long as it serves Mr. Benning’s purpose.”
“And what’s Benning’s purpose?”
Finally, a relatively intelligent question. “He wants interest in the lake and its special—”
“You mean Deery.”
“Uh, yes. He wants interest in the lake and . . . Deery . . . to increase considerably.”
Ben peered over the edge of his beer can. “Why don’t you just say so then?”
“It is my job to be . . . vague when dealing with the less conventional aspects of Mr. Benning’s enterprise.”
Ben spat between his splayed feet. “Y’mean the illegal stuff.”
Smitts remained quiet.
After a moment Ben said, “Any way we want?”
“Yes.”
Ben nodded, thoughtful. He looked up at Jerry who’d been occupying himself with a scab on his left wrist. Smitts saw that it had begun to seep. “What d’you think, Jerry?” Ben asked.
Jerry stared at his friend for a moment then shrugged. “Sure.”
Ben turned his beady eyes on the briefcase. “What’s in that?”
Smitts smiled. “Money.”
“How much?”
“Enough to ensure that you do as Mister Benning requests for as long as he is in need of your services.”
Ben raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of money.”
Smitts nodded and stepped over to the porch. Laying it on the porch’s weather-beaten surface, he opened the case, exposing thick stacks of twenty-dollar bills.
Frowning, Ben peered into the open briefcase. “Don’t look like much.”
“That is two-hundred-thousand dollars,” Smitts said.
“Really?”
Smitts nodded.
Ben nodded.
Jerry winced as his scab ruptured and bled all over his hand.

*

It was thirteen past ten P.M. on the Thursday when Pike’s phone rang.
He had been reviewing footage of interviews he had conducted with the villagers. The locals offered an interesting perspective on the lake legend. Many had grown up with it, never fully believing in it, but unable to dismiss it outright. They understood how the town depended on the legend. Though Deer Lake was beautiful, though the village’s inhabitants were friendly, though cottages were relatively cheap, all these things combined could not compare to the draw that was Deery. 
Unfortunately, though well-meaning and supportive of Pike’s endeavours, many of the villagers did not understand what he was doing. They asked him if their “characters” were married or single. They wanted to know if they would get to do a scene with any of the “stars.” Some insisted on doing their interviews in costume. Laura McKinley, an eighty-three year old grandmother of twelve, sat for her entire interview dressed in her wedding gown. The image of Laura’s wizened face peering out from behind her moth-eaten veil was spectacularly creepy.
When Paul Port, a particularly annoying member of the cottager’s association, asked if he could do his own stunts Pike said sure. He then instructed Paul, pale and beer-bellied, to run through the woods as though he were being shot at and dive into the lake to escape the gunfire. As the portly cottager ran from tree to tree, dodging imaginary bullets before plunging into two feet of September lake-water, Pike walked away with his camera tucked under his arm.
Most of the villagers, though charming and often quite photogenic, did not have much to say. Beatrice Flemming listed her favourite recipes. Dave Quinn expounded on the details of his double-bypass, complete with visual aids. Gary Dupuis simply recounted the plot of a movie he’d seen earlier that week. After reviewing the footage, Pike was reasonably certain that the movie was Gremlins. 
Felix Prior, however, had been great. He photographed well, he was amiable and likeable. Though his information was suspect, his conclusions based on conjecture, he was fascinating and his enthusiasm was contagious. You wanted to believe him. 
Pike brought up an image of the old man on his monitor. Felix Prior was grey-haired, round-faced and smiling. Always smiling. He held up a grainy photograph.
The phone rang.
“Lo,” Pike answered.
“Is this Tad Pike?” A woman’s voice.
“Yep.”
There was a short pause before the woman said, “My name is Tara Prior. I’d like your help. I think my father was murdered.”



CHAPTER TWO


It was well passed eleven that Thursday when Tara Prior pulled her car into the rutted drive leading down to Tad Pike’s cottage. She had ended her call with the man just twenty minutes before. He had been incredulous about her assertion concerning her father’s death.
“Huh?” 
“My father, Felix Prior. I am sure someone killed him,” she’d repeated.
The phone was silent until Pike said, “Who is this?”
Tara sighed. She wondered if contacting the man had been a good idea. He had seemed perfect. He was young, and so more likely to be open-minded and adventurous. He appeared to be independently wealthy, or at least self-employed, since he lived on a lake in the middle of nowhere without starving to death. And he had been a reporter. She expected him to jump at the chance to investigate a possible murder.
Instead, he was just pissing her off. 
“My name is Tara Prior. Felix Prior was my father. You knew Felix Prior, right?”
“Sure. Yeah, I knew him,” he said. 
It suddenly crossed Tara’s mind that the guy might be drunk. “Are you drunk?”
“What? No!”
Finally, some sign of life. “Okay, so you know who I am, right?”
“Felix’s daughter. Tara. Fine, I got that bit. But why are you calling me? I mean, I’m real sorry about your dad and all, but I didn’t know him well enough to, like, write a eulogy or anything.”
Tara frowned at her phone as though it had tried to lick her. 
“Are you drunk?” Tara asked.
“Stop asking that. Just . . . just tell me what you want.”
“Mr. Pike, I told you: I need your help. I think my father was murdered. In fact, I’m sure of it. I want to find out by whom and exactly why.”
“Exactly why?” Pike repeated.
“Yes,” Tara said. “I think I might know. I think I might know who as well but . . . I have to be sure.”
A long pause.
“Why me?” Pike asked.
“I just think you could help.”
“’Cause I was a reporter?”
“That’s part of it.”
“’Cause I wasn’t especially good at it. I was okay but I wasn’t some crack newshound.”
“Look,” Tara said, “you went to journalism school, right? Took classes on note-taking and interviewing technique and stuff like that?”
“Sure, but—”
“That’s what I want,” she said. Tara realized she was being short with the guy.  More calmly, she said, “Let’s just talk about it, okay?”
Another pause before he said, “Fine, where are you?”
“In my car, about twenty minutes from your cottage. It’s in the middle of nowhere, by the way.”
“Yeah, it was the main selling point.” A sigh. “Okay, see you in twenty minutes then.”
Now she looked through a rear window into the small cottage. She had knocked on the back door but there had been no answer. Night had fallen some four hours ago, so Tara was forced to cup her hands around her eyes to see inside. There was a small kitchen with a mismatched fridge and oven range. A few dishes were drying on a draining pan by the sink. On the kitchen table was a paperback and a pair of binoculars. 
And the music. Loud rock music issued from within the cabin. Tara recognized it as a punk-style cover of the Joe Jackson hit Is She Really Going Out With Him? For this reason, she was not surprised when her knocking did not lead to an answer.
Tara shrugged and walked to the front of the cottage. A wide staircase led to the porch and front door. As she took a step up the stairs she heard a voice calling her name.
“Hello?” She looked around, searching the darkness.
“Up here,” the voice replied. It was close and it was Pike’s.
Tara craned her neck, looking to the second story balcony that hung over the deck. “Up where?”
“Behind you.” 
Tara turned and looked up. A man was crouched in a tree, about thirty feet above the ground. She could not see him clearly; he was obscured by the tree leaves and the night’s darkness.
“What are you doing up there?”
“Shooting,” came the answer.
“Shooting? What, birds at point blank range?”
“No,” he said. The man had the nerve to sound exasperated. “I’m not shooting a gun. It’s video.”
“Right,” Tara said, smiling despite herself. “So you’re shooting video from up in a tree. At night. If ever you tell anyone else about this, I’d go with shooting birds at point blank. At least that’s a cool kind of crazy.”
“Thanks for the advice. Hang on a second.”
There was the sound of rustling leaves, twigs snapping, and Tara watched as the man named Tad Pike swung down from the tree, moving expertly from one branch to the next. He was definitely not drunk. Pike landed before her with a soft grunt. His short hair was mussed and his clothes wrinkled and he obviously hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. He was also barefoot. But he was lean and broad-shouldered; a swimmer’s build. He held a video-camera, about the size of a thick paperback, in his right hand.
Pike looked her up and down. “You’re pretty tall,” he said.
Tara squinted at him. “Taller than I sounded on the phone?”
“No, taller than you looked from up there,” Pike said with a wave at the tree. “Up there you looked more . . . smooshed.”
“Smooshed?”
“Yeah, the angle. Couldn’t tell how tall you were.”
“Good to know,” Tara said. “Can we go in, please? ’Sfreezing out here.”
“Sure.” Pike nodded and led the way.

*

Tara Prior sat on the couch, the living room’s only piece of furniture. No coffee table, no chairs save the ones circling the kitchen table, just an ugly couch facing large picture windows which, Tara had to admit, offered a spectacular view of the lake. Even at night, the lake, the mountains surrounding it, and the islands dotting it, were absolutely beautiful. She’d forgotten just how beautiful.
From the kitchen Pike asked, “Wanna beer?”
“Yes, please,” Tara said.
“Stella good?”
“Very,” she said, accepting the bottle.
Pike took a seat on the floor, back against the wall, his head against the window. He watched her, sipped his beer.
“What were you shooting up there, in the tree?” Tara asked.
“The lake.”
“At night?”
Pike nodded.
“What for?” Tara said.
“A project. Doing a story on the lake. The history, the village, the legend.”
Tara rolled her eyes and took a long draw from her beer. “The legend. Yeah, I’ve heard just about as much as I can take about this lake and its legend.”
“I don’t believe in it either,” Pike said. “Your father sure did though.”
“Yes he did,” Tara tried her best to keep the resentment from her voice.
“So tell me about it. Why do you think someone killed him?”
“I got a letter from him,” Tara said.
There had been nothing unusual about the letter. It had been like all the others. Her father explained that he was close to finally proving what he’d known to be true for years. He had discovered some new evidence, or talked to some new expert, or read some new book. He was always so sure, so optimistic. Over the ten years since she had last spoken to her father, Tara had received well over a hundred letters. She read them all, if for no other reason than to remind herself why she no longer spoke to the man she’d loved so much so long ago. 
Felix Prior had been the first person to produce a photograph of Deer Lake’s very own lake monster, Deery. He was also the first and only person to have been saved by the beast. Or so he claimed. When he was eight, Felix’s parents purchased a small cabin on Deer Lake. The Priors were part of the lake’s fledgling cottagers’ community. It was during that first summer on Deer Lake that young Felix Prior had heard the legend of Deery for the first time. An old French-Canadian local by the name of Remur Beaudoin had been the story-teller, a throwback to the days when telling tales over a camp fire was the only form of acceptable entertainment. In heavily accented English, the man had told Felix of an aquatic beast the size of a locomotive. It roamed the lake’s shadowy depths, keeping its eyes on the surface, watching for a wayward cottager buttered in vanilla-scented sun-block. The creature, Remur recounted, had lived in the lake for millennia, since the age of the dinosaurs. It had battled both time and the elements to stake its claim on the body of water and would certainly not suffer pale and overfed accountants in Speedos. 
An irascible drunk with a hatred for both cottagers and children, Remur Beaudoin had intended for his story to frighten the cottager child. Unfortunately, rather than terrified, Felix had been riveted and, from that day on, every moment spent at the cabin was devoted to catching a glimpse of the elusive beast. 
Young Felix spent hours on an inflatable raft, peering into the depths of the lake. He yearned to see a thirty-foot shadow passing underneath him, a lake-bound Leviathan. He built a hunter’s blind on Bingo’s Island—named after Bingo Bryant who had died following an unfortunate game of piñata with a hornet’s nest the size of a small child—and hid within its leafy confines with his father’s old Kodak Monitor. Over the years, Prior captured surprisingly tasteful photographs of geese, swimming deer, floating logs, an empty gas container, an overturned kayak, a fat cottager in a life vest, dead fish, seagulls, an Igloo cooler, small sailboats, a deflated beach ball, a fully inflated beach ball, his own inflatable raft, a lost flipper, loons and, once, a topless woman sunbathing on a surf board. Deery, however, remained a hard target.
Until June 26th, 1962. On that date, years after he had abandoned his blind and upgraded to his very own state-of-the-art Nikon, Felix Prior, aged sixteen, stumbled upon a bear. Felix had been roaming the woods that lined the western shores of the lake. These woods were thicker, wilder, free of beaches and hence free of cottages. Unfortunately, these woods were also home to wildlife usually kept at bay by cottages and their loud, smelly occupants. It was a black bear sow that young Felix happened upon while searching the shore-side forestry for signs of the elusive Deery. The bear was, in effect, answering an age old riddle by shitting in the woods when it was quite rudely interrupted by young Prior. Understandably, the bear was quite unhappy and voiced its annoyance as only a bear in full crapus interuptus could. It rose onto its hind legs, stretched to its full and considerable height, and bellowed. Felix Prior proceeded to join the bear in its previous and more silent activity.
It is impossible to know whether it was scent or sound that attracted Deery, but, as the black bear was set to fall upon the unfortunate teenager, an enormous lizard-like head, all teeth and scales, burst from the lake, grabbed the bear in its jaws and, with two powerful tugs, dragged the writhing mammal into the lake.
Felix was left standing with a shocked look upon his face, a cooling lump of pooh in his pants and his camera in his hands. As he watched, the ripples that had been the only remaining sign of the beast and its meal—other than the pile of still-steaming crap the bear had left behind—softened and disappeared. But just as Felix was about to release the breath he’d been holding, a dark lump breached the water some hundred yards from shore. It was moving. Fast. Young Felix raised his camera and, with shaking hands, took a picture of the mysterious shape just moments before it disappeared below the lake’s surface.
No one else had seen the beast. No one else had seen the bear. No one believed that Felix Prior had seen either. Felix, however, could not have been happier. He had seen the Deer Lake monster, and he had taken its picture.
The photo was promptly developed and sent out to every major news outlet in the country. It was printed in three local publications, including the Deer Lake Announcer, and fifteen magazines that specialized in the occult and unexplained. In the National Truther, Felix’s photograph appeared below the heading “Lake Lump: Secret Government Submarine?” The Crypto-Science Monthly published a six page feature using Felix’s photo as its centerpiece. Despite the dearth of serious, or sane, interest in his picture, Felix Prior had resolved to prove to the world that Deery did exist and that his photograph was authentic. Deer Lake’s Ahab would find his Moby Dick.
Since then, he’d become a local celebrity as the lake monster’s most ardent believer and fan. He’d devoted his life to his passion, this above all else. Friends abandoned him, his career as a financial advisor faltered and finally crumbled. Unable to compete with Felix’s growing obsession, unable to compete with the myth, the mystery, the legend, Doris Prior left her husband of seventeen years and took fourteen-year-old Tara with her. Felix relocated full-time to his family cottage. Neither woman nor girl had spoken to the man since.
Felix, however, had never given up the hope of rekindling his relationship with his estranged daughter. He mistakenly believed a bond built around a shared passion for Deer Lake and its crypto-zoological native could be fostered between Tara and him, that he had only to convince her that Deery was worth her time, her energy, her passion and endeavored to do so through a series of letters detailing his imagined progress. 
So when she received his latest missive, Tara didn’t think much of it. She read it and quickly filed it away with the others. When it proved to be his last letter, however, she dug it out and reread it. Over and over again.
“In the letter,” Tara explained, “he tells me he’d found evidence that explained why Deery was so hard to find. He didn’t say what it was. He did say, though, that it would be ruined and that he had to stop that from happening.”
“Stop what from happening?” Pike said.
“He was vague. I can show you the letter if you want,” she said, pulling a folded sheet of paper from her back pocket. “He basically said he had this evidence but that it would be destroyed by Benning’s plans.”
Pike raised an eyebrow. “Oliver Benning?”
Tara nodded. “Yeah.”
Pike accepted the letter from her and unfolded it. He scanned the contents. 
“Benning, the amusement park guy?”
“Right. And porn.”
“Of course. And porn.
Pike read the letter:

Tara, I have finally found what I’ve been looking for all these years. I have found proof of Deery’s existence. This time I am absolutely sure of it. This is not like the tooth I found (it was a bear claw, remember?). Neither is it like the Deery coprolite I found (that turned out to be a petrified tree trunk, remember?). This is different. I can feel it.
I must say, it was my boldest venture thus far. But it was well worth it. I know where it lives, Tara! I know now why it is so difficult to find! People always said there could be no monster in this lake, that the waters were so clear that such a large animal would be easily spotted. I can answer them now! I can! Please see me and I will tell you all!
In fact, I truly wish you would come to Deer Lake because, apart from simply seeing you and sharing with you my wonderful find, I may need your help. My discovery is in danger of being destroyed, and quite possibly Deery him/herself with it!!!!
Oliver Benning has plans for our little town and these plans could spell the end of everything. Please come, Tara. I will explain everything and I am sure that, once you’ve heard what I have to say, you will help me. Until then, I will do what I can to stop Benning myself. I must.
I love you, Tara. 
—Your Father

Silence as Pike digested the information. “You’re right, it’s vague,” Pike said. “Why not spell it out?”
Tara sighed. “He’s trying to entice me. He wants me to come see him. He figures that, if he leaves stuff unclear, I might come here just to find out more.”
“Yeah, he really wanted you to come, huh?”
Tara didn’t want to talk about her relationship with her father, not with a man she’d just met. “What do you think of the letter, Pike?”
“Well . . . let me get this right. You’re saying that, based on this letter, you’re convinced that Oliver Benning, one of the richest guys in the U.S., had your father killed?”
“Exactly,” Tara said.

*

Pike finished his beer and placed the empty bottle on the floor between his feet. It was midnight, he was tired, and had now been introduced to a lake-side murder mystery which, to be completely honest, made absolutely no sense. This tale of dubious intrigue and questionable suspense had been proposed by a woman he had just met and, though she was tall, long-legged and really quite pretty, he was debating whether or not she was crazy.
Of course, maybe she was drunk. 
“Are you drunk?” 
The woman tried to kill him with a glare. “No, Mr. Pike, I am not drunk.”
“Okay, good. And just Pike is fine.”
“Oh, you’re one of those guys,” she said.
“What do you mean, ‘those guys?’”
“Try to make yourself sound tough by taking on a single word for a name. A word that just happens to be a medieval weapon, of course.”
Pike cocked an eyebrow at her. “It also happens to be a kind of fish. Plus, it actually is my last name. And my first name is Tad, a really tiny sperm-like kind of fishy thing. How would you handle it?”
The woman laughed. “Okay, you got a point there. Sorry. Pike.”
He smiled, glad she was finally loosening up a little. 
Now that the frost appeared to have melted, Pike felt he could voice the concerns rattling about in his brain.
“Okay, Tara,” he said, climbing to his feet. He sat next to her and took a moment to gather his thoughts. “I think you’re pretty much nuts.”
The frost was back. In fact, it was now a glacier.
“But,” he added, “I do want to hear more about this. I’m being honest here: I don’t think your father was murdered. It’s sad, but I am absolutely positive that he was torn up by a boat prop.” She opened her mouth to speak and he held up his hand, silencing her. “But, look, I’m willing to listen to you. It’s just that if all you’ve got is that letter . . . I just don’t—I can’t buy it.”
Tara glared at him for a moment, but finally lowered her eyes and nodded. “I realize this all sounds pretty crazy. I guess I didn’t really look at things from someone else’s point of view.” She looked up at him, calm, sincere. “I’m glad you’re being honest about this. It tells me coming to you was the right thing to do.”
She stood and took a final sip of beer. She stared out the window for a moment at the night-shrouded lake.
She turned back. “I’m sorry I’ve been so short with you. I guess I was just so sure you would believe me. When you didn’t . . . I guess I got mad.”
Pike nodded. “I get it. ‘Sokay. And you gotta understand that one thing they teach you in journalism school is to question everything. Fact is, this letter doesn’t say much, y’know?”
“I know. But to me, it’s just too much of a coincidence that he writes that, names Benning, and turns up dead just days later.”
“Like I said: I want to hear more.” 
Tara looked up at him. “So I come back tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’d be fine.”
She nodded and held out her hand. “Thank you, Pike.”
He shook her hand, feeling that he was quite probably getting himself into one hell of a mess.

*

Gerry Hoolahan was annoyed. It was a full forty-three minutes past three in the a.m. and he was stumbling through the woods in his pyjamas and a pair of ill-fitting rubber boots. Branches lashed his face and clothes, tree roots grabbed at his toes and ankles, mosquitoes attacked his face and hands. Yet, Gerry’s annoyance was nothing compared to the concern he felt for the young girl.
He had been trying to sleep but was kept awake by the fact that he was not sleeping in his own bed. Gerry Hoolahan had always done his best to avoid sleeping in strange beds. When travelling, he usually kept to cities in which he counted family members, people with whom he would have no problem borrowing a towel, clean pair of jeans or bed. This, however, limited his and his wife’s out of town travels to Timmins, Ontario and Low Point, Prince Edward Island. Though Gerry was always glad to go to P.E.I., his wife Ingrid had apparently had her fill of Low Point. As a passive-aggressive form of protest, Ingrid resolved to imbue her cooking with as much variety as that found in their vacation destinations. After weeks of eating the same two meals for dinner, either meatloaf or pan-fried cod, Gerry was finally convinced to negotiate. The couple settled on renting a cottage in Quebec’s Upper Laurentians. They had heard of Deer Lake, having been avid viewers of the old Unsolved Mysteries TV show, and thought a few days spent upon its shores could prove both relaxing and exciting. 
Gerry felt surprisingly good about the trip until he was faced with the bed. It wasn’t his bed. He had no idea who or how many people had slept in the bed. Did the owners rent their cottage out year-round, month after month, a different person or couple occupying the bed every thirty days? Gerry had serious doubts about sleeping in such a promiscuous bed. He decided to give it his best, for Ingrid. Come nightfall, however, he lay wide awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about all the backsides which had occupied the very spot upon which his own rump was now sweating. He felt uncomfortable. Ill at ease. Dirty. The bed had been around. The bed had held multiple partners. Gerry was sleeping with every person that had previously slept in the bed.
He was about to burst from beneath the sheets and run screaming into the lake to scrub the cumulative, bed-stored cottager-filth from his body when Gerry heard the child’s cry. It sounded like a young girl, no older than six or seven. The cry was plaintive, near tears. He listened closely and, after just a few moments, he heard it again. Gerry could not discern any clear word or words but the sentiment was clear: the kid was scared.
Doing his best not to wake Ingrid, Gerry climbed out of the bed of questionable virtue, walked out the front door, onto the porch and into his rubber boots.
An hour and a half later, he followed the beam of his Canadian Tire-brand flashlight through the woods, while moths and other nocturnal pests danced and swirled through the light, casting grotesque shadows upon the surrounding foliage and creating movement where there was none. His clunky boots were crunched and snapped through the undergrowth, the sounds echoing in the dark like gunshots. 
The child’s cries continued. They came in regular intervals, every three minutes or so. Gerry was moving closer to the source, this he could discern by the volume of the child’s calls. She did not seem to be moving, either closer or farther away. This, Gerry decided, was good. Three times Gerry called out himself, in the hopes of alerting the child that he was on his way, of reassuring her. Strangely, her cries did not stop, nor did they change at all. The child sounded no less frightened, her cries just as unintelligible. Gerry was beginning to worry, not only for the child, but for himself. He was not a woodsman. His property back home was half an acre in size and sported a grand total of two trees, each one smaller than Gerry himself. Nature was something Gerry Hoolahan watched on TV or from far away. He never integrated himself into nature. 
The cries were close now.
“Hello,” Gerry called. “Are you lost? I’m here to help you, okay?”
He kept moving, swinging his light from left to right and back again. He noticed a spark of light to the right. He swung toward it, spearing the night with his flashlight beam. He heard a noise, a soft, rhythmic gurgle. He took another step forward, peered into the beam of light, trying to recapture the spark or flash he had noticed before. He flicked his wrist slightly and saw the flash again. But it was not, as he had originally believed, a new source of light but, instead, a reflection of his own light. He had wandered near shore, the sound he’d heard were waves lapping at the beach while the spark was his own beam reflecting against the water’s surface.
The girl’s cry came again and Gerry whirled about. He stumbled over a fallen tree and pushed through a tangle of branches. His light revealed tree after tree. Then there was another flash, another spark. This one was not water-borne. The lake was behind him. This new light had issued from one of the trees. A huge one, not ten yards ahead. Gerry crept toward the tree and, as he approached it, he realized there was a large hole marring its surface. The hole was large enough to hold a child of six or seven. Gerry had no kids of his own and, at forty-six, he’d resigned himself, with more relief than sorrow, to never having any. But, having been a child once himself, he knew one thing about children: they were pretty stupid. Stupid enough to wander alone into the woods, stupid enough to get lost, stupid enough to climb into a large hole in a large tree and, possibly, stupid and fat enough to get stuck in said hole in said tree.
“Are you in the tree, sweetheart?” he whispered.
No answer.
He crept closer, aiming his flashlight at the hole. With every step, Gerry noticed the small flash of light issuing anew from the trunk’s depths. He reached the tree and leaned forward, holding his light high, so as to peer into the cavity. The hole was three feet from top to bottom and at least a foot in width at its widest point. At first Gerry saw only ragged bark and punky tree-innards. As he traced his beam lower, however, delving deeper into the cavity, he saw the spark. Two sparks. Eyes. Eyes that were not the eyes of a small child. Rather, they were the eyes of a fat, irritated and very scary porcupine.
Gerry’s first thought was Holy shit, a porcupine.
Gerry’s second thought was that the porcupine had killed and eaten the girl.
Gerry’s third, and most insightful thought was that the porcupine was, in fact, the source of the cries.
These three thoughts came upon Gerry quite rapidly, but they were cleanly interrupted by the porcupine as it let out a cry which sounded quite a bit like a forlorn child, and launched itself at Gerry.
Gerry Hoolahan had never been attacked by an animal. He had never been bit or even nipped by a dog, he had never been scratched by a cat, he had never been pecked by a budgie. That his first adversarial encounter with the animal kingdom would take place in a forest, at three in the morning, with a porcupine, was completely unforeseeable. 
The creature screeched as it hit Gerry in the chest. Gerry screamed as he stumbled backwards, grabbed the thing and, using the beast’s own momentum, threw it over his right shoulder with as much force as he could muster. The porcupine flew through the air and landed just a foot from the water’s edge. It was back on its stumpy little legs in a flash, snarling and spitting.
Gerry was terrified. The thing looked like an obese, spiky cat on steroids. It kept screeching at him. At that moment, Gerry Hoolahan wished more than anything that he was back in the slutty bed.
There was a splash, a cracking of branches, a sound like a bear-trap being sprung and, after a second, louder splash, the porcupine was gone.
Gerry could not be certain of what he had seen. Something big and dark had appeared for a split second, had enveloped the porcupine and had spirited it away, and he resolved, then and there, to keep what he had seen to himself. Otherwise, he would be forced to admit that he had seen Deery eat a porcupine.


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