by J. A. Crook
Memoirs of Jacob Bright, Ten Days Haunted
Day 1 - November 22, 1941
It is unusual that I would sit writing in bleak candlelight, but tonight is the sort of night, in a town like this, the wintry barren of Barrow, Alaska, when darkness is all that will rear her head for this community of wayward settlers, native Inuit, and researching folk as I am. The sun does not grace us and something understands it... ‘tis why I write.
Yesterday began as any other late November day, as the community hung and limped along, or so did those that remain during these late months, trying desperately to conform to the perpetual darkness. Many, for the bitter cold and lack of sunlight, retreat south, or beyond the Arctic Circle, to revel in the few short hours when the sun would peek over the horizon, uninterested with this alien world, bound to move on below the horizon again like a shy child at its mother’s skirt. The Inuit, I believe, were more productive than ever, but remained reclusive to those that challenged the dull expulsion of light. George Ferrell, the shopkeeper of the midtown general store would have been one of those omitted from the Inuit’s concern if he wasn’t the very link that brought their hunt and trade to those that hadn’t the ability to obtain certain commodities themselves. For this reason, it is most unfortunate that today, on the twenty-second of November, in the year nineteen forty-one that George Ferrell is no more.
The authorities of the town, Officer Reinken and Officer Yarborough, reported that George Ferrell was the victim of a heinous death, which was described as implicitly as possible to the worried people of Barrow. However, soon after, all of the gritty detail emerged as result of Jenna Newstead, the standing authority in everything that is gossip and verbal trade, and it was first shared with her small ritualistic bunch during a late night poker game.
Ms. Newstead claimed that the entire general store appeared as though it had been run through by a herd of wild bulls. From top to bottom the store had been ripped apart during the late night, as was the man that managed it. Amid the disarray of smashed canned goods, scattered cereals, and leaking liquor bottles, was Mr. Ferrell’s blood spread from ceiling to floor, from door to counter and back again. I recall the exact statement, “an explosion of gore,” being a tactlessly appropriate description for the scene.
The violent depiction could have been most easily explained by the possibility of an attack by a pack of wild beasts, many of which are common in this part of the country, and with a large degree of those animals being nocturnal by nature, this time of the year, when light dared not to embrace us, it mostly made sense that on their now timeless wild hunt, Ferrell and his store could have fallen victim. Secondly, not all of Mr. Ferrell’s body was found at the scene. A severed arm, however, was, and if he did somehow manage to survive, it was unlikely he’d remain alive for long. Also, if there were in fact animals behind the debacle, hungry and ravenous, why was any bit of him left at all? The scene was unsettling.
There were other theories, yet. The native Inuit of Barrow were known for their violent cultural characteristics. In my study, I have heard tales from those with diplomatic ties to the natives, like George Ferrell, that claim that the Inuit were thought to carry out the practice of senicide, or the killing of their elderly or unproductive peoples. Also, it was said that in their culture, for purposes of purifying their souls prior to passage to the afterlife, violent and terrible suicides were carried out. Needless to say, death was not as entirely taboo as it was to some of us, and given Mr. Ferrell’s explicit link to the natives, it wasn’t hard to believe that a trade deal may have gone awry and an angry native took to thoroughly “purifying Mr. Ferrell for passage.” I know now that I will tread lightly in these dark hours until the source of this tragedy becomes clearer.
Day 2 - November 23, 1941
While the local authorities were busy with the investigation of Mr. Ferrell’s death, we received more questions than answers. Last night, an hour past midnight, Lyle Carver, the local butcher, claimed that Ms. Newstead’s door was reportedly broken into and hanging from its hinges. I went to see the claim with my own eyes and stood outside of the door this evening to try and understand the breadth of what it was we were dealing with. The scene offered little explanation.
To say that the door was broken into was a bit of an understatement. It would be better to say that the door was broken through and left in splintered wooden planks around the threshold. Inside of the door and beyond the highlighted tape indicating the perimeter of the crime scene was Ms. Newstead and her inner circle of three local women, dressed in red, not by design, each slain. It was in this moment that consolation was replaced by threat and the police, without podium or grandeur, explained the scene to those of Barrow in all the graphic detail required to convey such a threat.
Officer Yarborough, the younger of the two authorities, spoke in a shaky, uncertain voice. He said, and I remember it vividly as I quote, “Tonight it has become apparent that last night’s attack at the General Store and the death of Mr. Ferrell wasn’t a terrible accident, but instead a scene of a terrible murder.” The ‘oohs’ and covered mouths of dismay sprung about with the revelation, but there was confusion as to why they spoke of last evening's scene and not of the scene at hand. It was apparent that they were connected in some way. He continued, “Tonight we have discovered four women, Ms. Jenna Newstead, Gina Gregory, Lilah Horton and her sister, Vivian Horton—“ and he shook his head and stuttered and fought back tears and said, “—all dead.”
Officer Reinken, the ranking official, stepped up to finish as Officer Yarborough moved away to collect himself.
I write now as I remember him saying: “This isn’t going to be pretty, people, but I’m going to tell you the way it is, because we need you to understand the severity of the situation. All four women were decapitated.” I needn’t pause long here, as anyone that understands the propensity of people understands the reactions the confession garnered, “Furthermore, the sick bastard responsible for their deaths placed the severed heads on different bodies, clockwise.” Clockwise, I thought, was an odd detail. There was the threat. Then came their warning, which as I write here in my small cabin, confirms I have not heeded the latter half of the officers’ advice: “We ask that the remaining citizens of Barrow either remain within their homes, preferably armed, or immediately leave the city until we can find who or what is responsible for the atrocities encountered the past two evenings. I promise you, on behalf of the Barrow police force, that we will do everything in our power to bring this to an immediate end.” I do have a gun, however, on the table beside me as a write.
Mass exodus seemed to be the majority of the response. I recall seeing the butcher, Mr. Carver packing away his things and leaving in a hurry that evening along with the others. Tonight Barrow is more quiet a town than I ever remember it. Remaining are perhaps twenty or thirty. I hope the one responsible went with it.
Day 3 - November 24, 1941
Barrow is desolate and empty tonight. We are but a dying star in the north, sputtering like coughing engine. When I walk through the streets, I am greeted by strange stares through shaded windows. Everyone that remains is suspect of everyone else. Civility isn’t an option anymore.
During this evening’s walk, a potentially treacherous activity inspired solely by boredom and twisted curiosity, I managed to record those that remained: The Barrow acting physician and doctor, Doctor Reynold Creston was locked away inside of his clinic. I knew he was there due to the soft glow of his clinic’s double-paned window. Snow was nearly piled up to the sill of the window from the outside.
Boris Chekov, the Barrow mechanic and one renowned for his ability to fix nearly anything, large or small, was the resident Russian of Barrow. I hardly understood anything he said, but his Russian words often came with a whirlwind of very English curses about one thing or another. He understood more than the rest of us about the tumultuous nature of the world. We are in a great war, he babbled, though I admit I’ve seen little of it being here in Barrow, as remote as
we are. The Army did construct some sort of crude radar site off-limits to everyone, known as Point Barrow.
I recall becoming especially cold near the cemetery. On this chilly Alaskan night, which I wager was something of four or five degrees below zero, I remember young Patrick Martin, a city worker and undertaker, sitting atop a headstone, rocking back and forth in a heavy coat. He was mentally retarded and usually kept to himself, shunning the public. I thought it was strange that I found him outside. As threatened as we all were, it seemed that the mass exodus of people from Barrow tranquilized the imbecile. I don’t think he understood the true threat—or perhaps he was responsible. If I had to guess anyone was responsible, I would guess Patrick Martin. I kept the encounter with him to myself, and probably would have reported the suspicious activity if I hadn’t noticed that Officer Reinken was already keeping an eye on the lad across the street in his patrol car. I waved in the direction of the officer, but he didn’t seem notice me. He sat in his car with the lights off.
Sarah Dolton was rocking inside of her home, reading a book further down the street. She seemed to be taking the news quite well, rocking leisurely to and fro, but the shotgun beside the old woman’s rocking chair changed my impression. Even I walked through the streets armed, ready to brandish my pistol should something emerge from the snowy darkness that surrounded me.
I write now just before the midnight hour. I intend to tinker with my grandfather’s old pocket watch until sleep settles in. I do wish the confounded thing would work again, though the complexity of the device is astounding despite its age. I digress. The night was a quiet one.
Day 4 - November 25, 1941
I may have preemptively recorded that last night was “quiet.” I woke up to police lights shining through my fogged window. After gathering my jacket, I rushed outside to see what had happened, expecting the worst. As fate would have it, my expectations were met thoroughly with horror and tragedy.
Officer Yarborough’s car was parked with its lights on next to Officer Reinken’s car, which sat at about the same location it did before I went to sleep, just across from the cemetery. Thick, black smoke plumed from the burning police car and I witnessed the pure terror of Officer Reinken’s screams as he burned alive within. The Russian and Officer Yarborough were doing what they could to suppress the fire and others stood horrified in the distance as they watched the events unfold.
The fire itself flashed and flickered blue as a testament to its intensity. I dreaded understanding that there was nothing that could be done for Officer Reinken in time to save his life. Still, many of the remaining townspeople banded together and pitched ice atop the fire from nearby drifts with large shovels. Eventually the screams ceased. Officer Reinken was but a marred, burnt corpse. I vomited, disgusted beyond belief.
After remaining outside for nearly an hour in the bitter cold, around three in the morning, the fire was finally put out. The Russian cursed and shook his head. Young Officer Yarborough said nothing. No one spoke.
When the scene was cleaned up, Officer Yarborough left a written debrief outside of the station door for all of us to read. I scribbled the note into my journal:
I regretfully inform those of Barrow that Officer Reinken was not victim of some heinous accident. After investigating the scene, I discovered an empty gas can about thirty feet away from the vehicle, between two abandoned homes. The gasoline was used as a propellant. Furthermore, Officer Reinken was unable to escape the vehicle because he was tied to the driver’s seat with metal barbed-wire. As it stands, I have no idea how the perpetrator managed to sedate and subdue an officer of Reinken’s caliber, but one thing I can conclude is that whoever is responsible for this despicable crime is without fear of consequence. Please remain vigilant. If the one guilty is reading this now, turn yourself in. You WILL NOT get away with these crimes. I have requested additional support from the neighboring towns. They will be arriving within a couple of days, but with the Thanksgiving holiday on its way, support may not come as fast as we can hope.
The madness that plagues Barrow remains. I recall that as the later hours came, the mild glow I’d seen from the windows of the remaining townspeople was extinguished. I’m unsure if they left or if they hoped to not draw any attention to themselves. I doubt I will sleep tonight, even with as little sleep as I managed last evening. I hardly seem to rest when I do fall asleep. Tomorrow I intend to visit with Doctor Creston on the matter.
Day 5 - November 26, 1941
Today is Thanksgiving eve and those remaining in Barrow have little be thankful for. The passing week has been nothing short of a nightmare and peace has become impossible in a town now wrought with suspicion. I noticed firsthand how bad it was today when I arrived at Doctor Creston’s clinic.
I knocked on the door several times and knew by the shuffling of the feet on the other side of the door that the doctor, or someone, was in. I spoke through the door, hoping that Doctor Creston would hear me. I hoped to renew a prescription of sleeping pills. Insomnia is a terrible disease and I expected that in the wake of recent events, I was not the only one troubled by it. My hope to be helped by the doctor was fruitless, as I heard the scuffling move off and away.
I returned to my home after not receiving a response and as I returned, I noticed something absolutely peculiar. I was being followed by Patrick Martin, the graveyard groundskeeper. His pursuit began around the doctor’s office, which made me question how long he had been watching. I walked hastily home and document this now because I fear for my life. With my free hand I clutch my pistol yet.