“Ronny, you son of a bitch! Where in the Christ do you think you’re going? I’m talking to you!” Cindi yelled.

Ronald Haverhill didn’t respond as he shoved open the screen door and stumbled out of the small, ranch-style house with a six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon. He flicked the end of a cigarette into the yard, then climbed into his red ’92 Jeep Cherokee. The boat trailer already hooked up from the night before, the dinghy loosely tied down.

Cindi stormed out behind him, wearing a slightly open, tattered pink bathrobe and matching slippers. Her mousy brown hair was wrapped in hot rollers, face coated in a seaweed exfoliating dressing that was dried, cracking with every facial movement. She was a short, plump woman who managed to scream full, explicit insults all while keeping a cigarette hanging precariously from her thin lips. It clearly wasn’t the first time. She was an expert. As she charged the driveway, her oversized breasts heaved heavily with every step, exposing tattooed cleavage through pilled terry cloth.

“My father is expecting you at the store this afternoon to haul away all the shit behind the building, and you’re about to spend the fucking day finishing!?” Cindi thundered in a raspy voice, panting. “Ronald! I need help around the Goddamn house today, too! You heard the fucking weatherman, didn’t you!?

Ronald didn’t acknowledge her berating onslaught as he started up the Jeep, instead cranking the stereo volume. Coincidently and most appropriately, The Rolling Stones, “Time is on My Side,” was playing. He smiled, lit a cigarette, pulled out of his long driveway on Grant Court, and took a hard right onto Asylum Street, which ran parallel to Forest Street and perpendicular to West Main. It connected Norwich to the turnpike, and its many branches filled this corner of town with sparse neighborhoods, public schools, and recreation facilities. If one was headed to the casino or the interstate, Asylum would be the path of least resistance.

About a mile up Asylum, Ronald crossed over to Sherman Street—a small industrial park and a quick right onto Yantic Dam Trail, which led to the boat launch. He slowly backed to the edge of the river, submerging the trailer, where the boat released itself and began to drift. After retrieving it, he pulled the Jeep around and parked in the dirt cul-de-sac.

The back seat was trashed, awash in empty fast-food containers, crumpled cigarette packs, and miscellaneous clothing items. Ronald rummaged through the mess and unearthed a tan bucket hat he placed on his greasy, shaggy head and a pair of black, knee-high rubber boots he slid over his gaunt legs. After grabbing a six-pack, a small radio, and two fishing poles, he was ready to spend the morning in solitude.

It wasn’t imperative to get out on the water this particular morning, but Ronald, who spent most nights listening to news radio while working third shift at Ascendant Utilities, was concerned by the weather declaration of a tropical storm. It mostly worried him that it could be several days before he could get back out on the water. It would also mean unwanted quality time spent with Cindi, his estranged wife, and, if that wasn’t bad enough, his father-in-law, the owner and namesake of Crazy Al’s. He certainly wasn’t going to spend a chunk of his day delivering beer kegs or hauling away the broken soda cooler and old floor displays to the town dump.

Ascendant Utilities was the state’s largest power plant. Considering there were only two, size was more or less irrelevant. Ronald, born and raised in Norwich, put in a good twenty years working as a security guard, a job he started part-time while he went to Mitchel College before dropping out two years in and converting to full-time status. It wasn’t exactly the dream job, but it served him well, and he was finally eligible for a pension.

Ronald was eighteen years married to Cindi Monte, daughter of Al Monte of Crazy Al’s Spirits, the local discount liquor store on West Main. She, too, was born and raised in Norwich, and since age sixteen, she’s worked at the liquor store full-time. Her father was close to retirement and soon to be handing over the reins—not that she wanted them. She didn’t like her father much, and she hated the liquor business. The hours didn’t quite suit her—ten a.m. to six p.m. and ‘till eight p.m. on the weekend—but she did enjoy the alone time when she was off, which was generally Monday and Tuesday. She and Ronald worked opposite schedules, and even though they hardly saw each other, their toxicity had gown to a mutual disdain.

Ronald stepped onto his heavy-duty, yellow Saturn Dinghy. It had a small outboard motor he started once settled in. The boat was unnecessarily large at twelve feet and could accommodate at least four people comfortably. Ronald was the only person ever in it. Cindi hated fishing, which suited him just fine; it was his getaway from her and from his miserable world. Although they were on different schedules, they still saw each other in the morning and on weekends, which was more than enough. He did everything in his power to minimize it.

Ronald steered the boat through the narrow channel, under the rusted, decommissioned railroad bridge, around the bend. To his surprise, the river was empty. This time of year, it wasn’t unusual to see the residents in their boats on the Yantic or around Hock Island, but not today. It was cold—unseasonably bitter for a mid-November day. The sun may have been out, but the air was dry. Brittle. The river was still, and the surrounding land was barren of life, which he found unusual; it was almost as if time had stopped. At the edge of the Yantic, not a single car even crossed the Washington Street Bridge. As he steered ahead, a few properties could be seen through the vibrant foliage. On his right, he came upon the abandoned neighborhood of Laurel Hill Drive. It was his least favorite part of the ride out and would always leave him unnerved.

He glanced over as he passed, but there wasn’t much to see through trees and high grass, save for a few faded rooftops and chimneys. He recalled taking the boat out on a freak, sixty-degree afternoon in January of the previous year. It was the first and only time he could get a good look at the properties, but it was a brief look and from afar. The skeleton of bare trees veiled the estates, which were covered in a light layer of snow from storms past. Jagged icicles hung down from low-pitched roofs. The few visible windows were blacked out as if they weren’t there. The surface of everything appeared frosted—a frozen monochromatic landscape; it reminded him of a black & white Hitchcock movie. Eerie. Unsettling. Strangely, right after he had passed, he sprung a leak and began taking on water, so he had to turn back.

Ronald also recalled hearing stories of a couple teenagers going missing a few years back. It was rumored that they kayaked over one afternoon and never returned. Neighbors along the river corroborated, seeing the teens that day in the inlet nearby. One teen did turn up about six months later. The remains were discovered by lobster boat fishermen pulling up a trap under the train bridge. Ronald, convinced the neighborhood was cursed, wondered why the town never bothered to tear it down.

While looking for an area to settle in, Ronald steered past Hock Island, another structure he wondered why the town didn’t tear down. He grimaced at the ancient, drab, brick structures as he passed, moreover surprised to see construction. Maybe they are finally tearing it down after all… The boat slowed to a halt once he reached the edge of the inlet near the Yantic and Thames confluence. He found being under the Washington Street bridge to be a prime spot for striper fishing. His prize rod was a seven-foot Shimano saltwater jigging pole he won in the 2001 Northern Bass Open tournament in the Mystic harbor; his backup was an old Fenwick two-piece.

Generally, his routine was to set up both poles at either end of the boat, sit back, drink, and wait. After casting out the second line, he hooked the handle under his seat, lit a cigarette, and cracked open a can of beer. He zipped his Duluth waterproof jacket, shielding the cold breeze while he took in the view.

The boat gently floated in what the townspeople referred to as the “crack” of Norwich. It was as if someone split the town right in the middle with a “Y” shaped crevice, and it splintered fifteen miles down to the Long Island Sound. From his location, the top left part of the “Y,” he had the town’s perfect view. He could see the police station to the south, the Johnathan Black Memorial Park, and town library to the north, and directly across from him to the east was the Norwich Water Park & Mini Golf.

Closer than any of that, Ronald could see a series of flashing emergency lights just beyond the pines, starboard side. It was tough to see through the densely wooded landscape of Forest Street, but from what he could make out, an ambulance and a couple of police cars, he could just about see the Cavanaugh’s charred, dilapidated structure.

“This whole goddamned place is cursed.” He mumbled, finishing his third beer.

As he snapped back the tab on the fourth can, the fishing line tugged in the water. Ronald perked up and grabbed the pole. The line pulled away at a steady pace as he watched, waiting for the right moment, slowly reeling, stopping for a few seconds, then continuing. The line pulled stronger, the pole firmly in his grip, the boat slowly moving backward. Ronald reeled until the tension increased to the point the handle couldn’t complete another revolution. The pole arched from the weight of whatever was attached below as he clasped on, white-knuckling. He sat with both feet dug into the bow for support. The boat pulled a little faster; it quickly picked up speed until Ronald found himself hauling down the inlet, water splashing in from either side.

Ronald’s eye’s widened, and his heart pounded as he held on, wondering what he had snagged. Shark was rare, but it wasn’t impossible. The idea of tuna excited him—there was good money in tuna, also known for occasionally traveling the river.

Ronald was hoping for a Tuna.

The line snapped, and Ronald fell back to the bottom of the boat. After a few moments, it slowed down, drifting in circles. When he sat up, he was in an inch of icy water. He looked around and noticed he was halfway back down the inlet. His backup pole was missing, and the line on the Shimano needed repairing. He was pissed off about the rod, infuriated actually, and on top of that, he lost an expensive lure.

Five feet from the boat, bubbles slowly began to surfaced. Small at first but gradually growing in size and rapidity, Ronald leaned over starboard to look at the strange anomaly. The bubbles increased in diameter to an alarming size, and while his curiosity was piqued, he slowly backed away. Long, stiff barbs surfaced two to three at a time. It looked as if dark samurai swords were rising toward him as chills surged through every nerve. Without hesitation, he jumped over the seat and yanked the ripcord on the motor. It started right up, but the propeller had elevated out of the water, followed by the stern as it raised, sending Ronald backward over the bench. For an instant, he saw the side tubing had four wide tears, air loudly escaping. The bow was submerged and what was ahead of him was absolutely terrifying. He barely saw it coming mere seconds before everything went black.

The expansive cavity of the beast let out a mean snarl, then its jaws clamped down on Ronald as he slid headfirst into the mouth. The central incisors of the animal impaled his chest before he could squeak out a sound. Blood gushed from his cracked sternum, his heart bursting upon impact. The lower incisors effortlessly crushed through his third vertebrae and thoracic nerve, rupturing his lungs. He gurgled out several fluid-filled grunts, and his arms and legs convulsed as he slid under the frothing water with the beast. A rush of burgundy-fused saltwater undulation surfaced for a few moments before dissipating.

Most of the yellow dinghy sunk under the Yantic as it drifted toward Forest Street.

Next Chapter: CH. 7 - UNSETTLING IN