St Aymon

by George Gordon

  Like the snowflakes, the trees were initially sparse, single clusters, and then into the great boreal forest we entered. The land appears different from the Canada we know—lifeless, cold, a never-ending sea of trees. I’d hate to get stuck out here, and even during the daylight hours the sun’s rays are weak, which create a gloomy atmosphere over the forest.

  If I thought Johnson was the undaunted, bold type, I was wrong, for his foot tapped nervously beside me the farther we drove into the forest, and he chain-smoked nearly all the way. He even asked if I cared to join him a few times, but I declined obviously (you know I would never dream of polluting my body with dirty tobacco toxins). By his side he keeps a small hipflask that smells strongly of whiskey (he’s not even a talkative drunk!).

  Around midnight, we checked into a small motel by the roadside in the forest—the last one for 600 miles. An ancient lady served us at the desk and questioned our business around here. She eyed my police badge suspiciously (folks up here distrust everybody including the law!). But I told her to mind her own business and, after we checked into rooms across from each other, I bade Johnson good night and swiftly fell asleep.

  I had strange, vivid dreams that night of a scruffy, long-haired man who lived in a log cabin in the woods. Birds sang at the window of the cabin and deer grazed on the long grass outside. When I awoke in the middle of the night, I could hear a man pacing up and down in the adjacent bedroom—Johnson, no doubt. I hope the police haven’t put me on a mission with a half-hinged loon, with me becoming the next investigation in this lonely place.

  Anyway, I write this letter from the bedroom in the morning. I’ve just helped myself to an assortment of pancakes, bagels, and waffles from the hotel’s kitchen, which has improved my spirits (super full). I hope Johnson is ready to go soon, for the weather is not looking too kind outside. I’ll post this through the mailbox in the hotel and hopefully write to you again soon. Remember to record the police investigation series we have been watching so I don’t fall behind on an episode! (There is a video I have left you can copy over. It’s labelled please record the next episode and don’t watch it without me!).

  Love you more than anything,

  Liam

  Letter VIII

  Dear Mary,

  We arrived at our destination deep inside the boreal forest in the late evening, a lone patch of orange sky in the west the remnants of dusk. This was a hard place to find indeed. The area is so remote, the roads do not appear on our map, and for hours we drove inside the boreal forest on a windy trail until we came across a T-intersection.

  We took a right turn and a further three hours we travelled on a straight, narrow road so overgrown, the tree branches scratched on the side of our vehicle like claws, before reaching another T-intersection. At first, we believed it to be different from the one before, but after a close inspection, it was identical to the previous. Even though we had driven at a 180-degree angle! This is a confusing land, and it is becoming apparent how easily you can lose your sense of direction.

  We took the left path next time and hoped the village would come into sight before sunset arrived. But once again, after three more dreary hours, we returned to the same intersection. Incredible. Only this time, a rotting elk carcass lay in the middle of the path amongst a large swarm of flies. Johnson, the crazy fool, went to inspect the carcass amongst the ever-growing swarm, and picked through it with his bare hands in search of something (he is a strange one indeed). At this rate, I doubted we would make it to the village that evening, so I urged him to return to the vehicle as we needed to find a place to park for the night. But he continued nonchalantly, disinterested in both me and the flies.

  Once he did return, he informed me the path was concealed through the trees. I had argued his theory, but following much disagreement, I succumbed to his protests and drove through a small undergrowth. To my amazement, Johnson was right—a new path lay ahead. The large swarm of flies sensed our intention to travel down this new path and began to beat violently against our window as if possessed. It is one of the strangest things I have ever witnessed—the four-legged, winged beasts’ suicidal attempts to stop us from travelling. Johnson urged me to go faster, and eventually we evaded them.

  I got a sense of something strange when driving along that path toward the village; it is hard to describe, but maybe a sense of helplessness, and for the first time, I was glad of Johnson’s presence. The old man himself had stopped shaking nervously, and now had an air of authority (maybe he was trying to hide his earlier nerves). An unpleasant smell grew stronger as we made our way along the new road, a sweet smell…it reminded me of a person I used to know…but anyway, following two days of travel, a house came into view—St Aymon.

  We passed a few buildings dotted along the roadside—all desolate and sinister-looking houses long abandoned. It’s not much of a village, more a collection of a few houses scattered along a path deep inside the boreal forest. Eventually we came across a heavy, rugged man walking a large, black dog. That dog was a danger to the public and should be kept on a lead, as it viciously went for Johnson as we approached. Johnson, who remained calm in the face of the attack, muttered something under his breath, which immediately made the dog cower. Animals must have something against the old detective, but at least he knows how to handle them!

  The man himself was cautious, vague in the knowledge of any missing British guy. He happened to be the wife’s brother, which at the time I thought a coincidence, but everyone I have met since has either been a brother, an uncle, or some sort of relative. The strange thing was he knew nothing of his sister’s whereabouts either; he thought she was still back in England travelling.

  From there we proceeded onto the parents’ house, who were an odd couple, for the father looked near to his deathbed (all pale and ghastly), whilst his wife was at least 30 years younger and looked in great health. (I’m sure there is a lot of incestual marriage around here, and I would put money on it that the wife was his young niece!)

  Much like before, they knew little of their daughter’s whereabouts and acted surprised to find her reported missing. Intriguingly, they had no knowledge of their daughter getting married abroad and laughed off the idea that she was with an Englishman. As far as they were concerned, she was still travelling in Europe. To prove their beliefs, they produced a letter their daughter had recently sent home. Below is a rough outline of what it said:

  Dear Family!

  Sorry for such a quick letter! I’m still in London where all it does is constantly rain! Ahh, sorry I haven’t been in touch, but I have been busy moving jobs and now work in a restaurant as the front of house. Although London is fun, I’ve met a German girl and we are planning on moving to Paris next month. Therefore, I’m trying to scrimp and save! Miss you all loads and will write soon before I leave!

  Love,

  Lucy

  I was stumped. The English family surely wouldn’t have made all of this up and have hired Johnson (who is very expensive and stood in the background throughout, clueless). As Johnson pointed out later, anybody could have written the letter. Yet, what purpose would that serve? Family is central to rural communities like these and, surely, they would be the first to cooperate if they knew their daughter was missing or in danger. They said as much themselves, but they all seem convinced she is fine in Europe. There was the possibility we had the wrong family and girl completely, for the English family couldn’t provide a photo of the Canadian woman because they claimed the wedding photos were ruined in a house fire. Yet, the description they provided was identical to the photo the family showed me of their daughter: tall, blonde, pretty (but obviously not as pretty as you!). She looked identical to the mother if only ten years younger.

  When I tried to update police HQ, there was no signal on the radio, which annoyed me. Before I left, Lieutenant Sydney assured me the recently installed cable lines would provide us with a signal up here in the Northwest Territories.

  The family have been very co
operative and kindly offered us accommodation in a log cabin in the wife’s parents’ land, so we can continue the investigation in the light. Apologies if the letter seems rather vague and rushed. I love you loads and look forward to returning to Vancouver.

  Love you more than anything,

  Liam

  Letter IX

  Dear Family,

  They came and amputated my feet in the night. I am a cripple. Each day they enter the log cabin and torture me. I want the end.

  Michael

  Letter X

  Dear Mary,

  Truly sorry for the delay! As I’m sure you know from the weather reports, we have been hit with a severe snowstorm in the Northwest Territories over the last few days, and consequently, the investigation has been temporarily suspended until the weather calms. Although this letter won’t reach you due to the conditions outside, I’m keeping it as a record for you to read when I make it back to Vancouver.

  Johnson and I have been isolated in our small log cabin. There are no books to read, TV to watch, or board games to play. Damn, another week of being locked up in here with Johnson and I may have to walk back to Vancouver! No heavy snow is forecast now in the area until next winter, Lieutenant Sydney’s very words when he rang me to take the mission. For his sake, I hope a letter of promotion awaits at my desk when I return—otherwise, there will be trouble. I bet all the team knew about Crackpot Johnson and are joking at my expense now.

  Thankfully, on the second day of the storm, I was able to contact my colleagues in Vancouver over the radio. Bizarrely, the policeman on the other end of the line was either drunk or new to the job (or both), as he questioned the date I stated over the radio. The rookie confirmed the date of April 22, 2022 (25 years in the future!). And the buffoon said there were no records of an active serving Officer Liam McPartland. Typical, this confirms my suspicions that the recruitment team have been lowering the standards, but anyhow, I hung up on the fool and told him to call me back with a senior member of staff or else I shall report him when I return (though I intend to anyway). I hope the police department are keeping you updated with my current situation.

  If I’m honest, I’m just going to get the family to sign a few documents, stating they know nothing about the disappearances. Yes, it is not great police work, but when you’re stuck in the middle of nowhere (with no chance of finding a body), there is not much you can do. It’s not like I’m going to search the whole of the Northwest Territories for a British guy lost in the snow. The family are convinced their daughter is still travelling, so it’s their problem in a few months whether she returns or not (and by that time, I will no longer have anything to do with the investigation).

  Old Johnson doesn’t seem to care much about the missing couple either (ruthless mercenary). He spends most of the day tirelessly scribbling letters and pacing the cabin, contemplating about something probably unimportant. I wonder who he graces with his letters? Probably an old widow no doubt in New York, keen to make an extra dime once this mission is over.

  I’m looking at Johnson while I write this letter; he has taken it upon himself to document all the signs and symbols etched into the woodwork of the cabin. Triangles, stars, circles—many queer shapes have been carved into the timber. Even I admit they are a bit odd, but typical Johnson (the lunatic) has taken a keen interest, and earlier I caught him vandalising the wood. We nearly got into a fist fight over the whole situation! I told him we would be dead without these people. That they have given us shelter from the storm outside, food to eat, and even a bottle of whiskey—but of course he didn’t listen. Americans, what can you do. I can’t arrest him either… Can you imagine? How was the trip? They would ask at the police station. Not bad, yes, no sign of the British guy, but I arrested the private detective after he vandalised our hosts’ private property. Anyway, he stopped his activities after I shoved my police badge into his face and reminded him who was in charge. Though, I can’t stop him from sketching the signs on a piece of parchment as that is not illegal. Stupid yank.

  Every night I keep on dreaming about the man living in the log cabin in the woods. His hair is long and unkept, and he picks fruit from the nearby trees. The cabin resembles ours somewhat; though, the wood is glossier and has a unique shine to it. A sort of sparkle. He is a kind man and for the first time yesterday in my dream, we spoke together (can’t remember about what though). Boredom, Johnson, and being in a remote place are, no doubt, to blame for these weird dreams.

  I pray the weather turns soon so I can return home.

  Love you more than anything,

  Liam

  Letter XI

  Dear Family,

  Bitter I weep. The world is an unforgiving, twisted place. I no longer know what is real and what tricks my imagination plays on me. Four days of darkness. Not one ray of the sun’s light has graced the Earth in four days. They stemmed the blood from my wounds, which allows them to come and go and torture me at will, but not so fierce that I bleed to death.

  No warmth emanates from the fireside. The silence is harrowing. Bitter I weep. I am secluded in this log cabin, a sanctuary from the terrors outside. Demons dance in the woods; I hide beneath the bed, wishing for home, wanting life to end. Voices speak in my head; an old friend I once knew speaks to me, urging hateful things on myself.

  What have I become? What poor wretched soul now exists from the once proud man I used to be. On the second day of darkness, the terrible fever gripped my weak body once again and bled what little strength I had. I called for you all, but only the laughter of children teased me, told lies about my past and future. Bitter I weep.

  Maybe this is the apocalypse, with me—the poor tortured soul—the last of the human race. If that is so, I am jealous of those who have already vacated this rotten Earth. Once upon a time, I dreamt of greatness, wanted to achieve things no one had done before. How foolish I was. When you are alone, and the world is against you, where do you turn and to whom do you speak? Bitter I weep.

  Forgive this dark letter. It is not your son or brother who writes now, but a fake pretender in the depths of the night. The family feast outside whilst I scribble on the page in blood from the sores that corrupt my skin. They laugh in their harsh tongue and occasionally bang on the window to throw insults at me. Come outside, they call to me in English. Feast with us on flesh and fill your belly. The succulent boar from the welcome meal was from an unborn child, they cry. Murderer. Their faces are pale, and they smile at the window, evil and corrupt. We will make you rich beyond your wildest dreams, they call; come, bend the knee, and achieve greatness with us. Long into the night they feast and dance naked around the fire, their shadows flickering on the cabin walls whilst I hide.

  And pray. Yes, pray. For if there is anything out there, any true loving thing in the once beautiful world I used to know, now is the time to emerge and save one of your subjects. Help me, God; end this merciless suffering, and I will always champion your name, even become a man of the cloth. Alas, I do not know a single prayer, but please, God, I’m begging you, save me from the demons outside.

  As I cry and pray to God, one of the children bangs on the window and calls for the others. They all enjoy my humiliation as tears stream down my face and dampen the floor. Silence.

  A man with long hair comforts me, embraces and consoles my ragged self. Why do you cry, my child? I wish for the end, I tell him, please take me away from here. The door of the cabin is being struck down by the demons outside. Be gone, children of Lucifer, the man speaks with authority, you have no place in the house of God. The banging becomes louder; the door threatens to break. A light shines and the man banishes them away. So passes the glory of the world.

  Letter XII

  Dear Mary,

  Good news and bad news. The good news is the blizzard has finally subsided after nearly a week of constant snowfall, yet the atmosphere remains bleak. I awoke this morning to find a strange phenomenon had befallen the sky. The entire north horizon was blood red, and th
e clouds swirled in the distance as if it was the very opening to the gates of hell. The eerie spectacle is something I have never seen or heard of before, and I wish I had had a camera on hand to document it.

  The bad news is Johnson is missing. Damn that old fool. The candle beside the table where he wrote still flickered with life this morning, and his parchments remained sprawled across the table in the same position as I had left him last night. However, there appears to be no trace of the old detective; it seems he has disappeared and vanished into thin air. Typical, the torrid weather breaks for the day, enough time for us to carry on the investigation, or better yet, return home, and the old man decides to play a game of hide and seek.

  After a morning search of the cabin, I decided to inform the family of Johnson’s disappearance. They were shocked and devastated by the news as the last thing they want is another missing person in the area. I must admit, I do feel slightly sorry for them; St Aymon is definitely not going to be put on the tourist trail anytime soon with these disappearances. Damn that old fool, once again, for causing trouble.

  The family were eager to help search for Johnson, and it made me laugh somewhat, but I think the whole village turned up to look for him. There were around 66 people in all who came out in the cold, including 6 small children (one was walking a pet cat, which was rather weird). If truth be told, they were far more interested in the search for the old man than I was. It’s odd that the family have reacted to the disappearance with more urgency than the news that their daughter could be missing.