The beast had managed to destroy the junction box in all the mayhem, leaving the landline dead. The house’s cell service was abysmal; it was hard to connect a call even on a good day. And to make things worse, the cell phone battery wouldn’t stay charged long enough to get a call out, even with the temperamental generator running. A couple of times, the phone had connected, but no one would pick up the other end.

“What are we gonna do!? What are we gonna do!? Why the hell aren’t they answering the phone!? What if that thing gets inside the house and tries to kill us? Amy cried hysterically, pacing around the kitchen, trailing dirty water from her saturated clothing.

“I got this if it comes back,” Curtis said, sitting at the table with a towel pressed to his arm as he sat staring out into nowhere. On the table lay an old twelve-gauge pump shotgun he pulled from the closet. He wasn’t sure if the beast was still there, but the love seat from the dining room was against the top basement door in case it tried to make its way up.

“We can’t stay here! We can’t fucking stay here, Curtis! We need to LEAVE! CURTIS!” She hollered in response to his nonchalant attitude.

“How? Where do we go!? There’s a goddamn monsoon out there!” He yelled back.

“OH, is there, Curtis!? I thought it was ‘just fucking rain’!?”

Amy picked up the cell phone frantically, trying to dial, her hands shaking so hard she could barely hold it. The no signal tone beeped. She tried several more times; ‘beep,’ ‘beep,’ ‘beep.’ She slammed the phone down in frustration and continued to bawl.

“It’s probably a good thing we can’t get through, anyway. I mean, what the fuck are we going to tell them—a monster broke into our house and tried to kill us? You know how absurd that sounds? The local police don’t like me in this town. All I need is something to give them an excuse to break my probation and throw me in fucking jail.”

“Curtis, what are you saying?” Amy whined.

“We… We can’t tell anyone about this. This is just fucking nuts!”

“Are you out-of-your-mind, Curtis? We need to report this. You need to get to a hospital. We need to get your son and leave this place!”

There was a long, silent pause. Curtis held a second dish towel tight to his arm to try and stop the bleeding, easily soaking right through.

“Christ, Curtis…” Amy grabbed another dishtowel from the counter and a box of gauze under the sink from when Wes fell off his bike, scrapping his knees the previous summer.

Curtis pulled off his wet shirt and let Amy clean and bandage his shoulder.

“I think I know what that thing was.” Curtis thought of Ronald, now wondering if he’d crossed paths with the beast.

“Huh?” Amy finished taping the bandage perimeter, lost in thoughts of Wes and her parent’s cottage, curious if it had power.

“I can’t remember what they called it, though. It had a funny name. They’d tell tales of a beast that was known to roam the woods in southeast Connecticut back in the ‘50s and ‘60s and mutilate farm animals. There were stories of campers that had gone missing—found mutilated, you know, shit they say to scare ya right before bed.”

“What?”

“Didn’t you ever do girl scouts or, uhhh—summer camp? People telling tales around the campfire; scary stories of urban folklore?” Curtis, a little surprised.

“No, Curtis,” She wasn’t interested in hearing anymore. “Whatever that thing is, it’s still in this house, and I’m not staying here.”

Curtis stood. “Thank you.” He hugged Amy long and hard, and while doing so, tried to recall the last time he touched his wife. Her delicate frame was soft and damp, and he could faintly smell the sweet scent from her facial moisturizer underneath the musky river water. He didn’t want to let go. “Once this shit calms a bit, you’re going to head to your parents’ house. I’m going to take care of this thing, and I’ll be there later on.” Curtis said serenely.

Amy, without question, nodded her head.

Not long after, she lay Wes across the back seat of her SUV and climbed into the cab while Curtis pulled his truck out of the driveway. The rain was still pounding heavily, but the wind speeds had diminished enough to make a safe passage.

Curtis sat back at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette. His mission was set: go down and kill the beast. His arm, now wrapped in gauze, continued to bleed. He stared at the bloody towel and dirty dishes, then over to the piles of folders and notebooks—Amy’s work things. As he ashed into a burgundy stained glass, a manila folder wedged between two notebooks with Dr. Patel on the tab caught his eye. He opened it. Inside were pages and pages of handwritten letters, mostly scattered sentences, paragraphs with entire sections crossed out with pen. Underneath was one that appeared complete.

Next Chapter: PART II