|Letter In The Attic (standard:fantasy, 2116 words)|
|Author: Alpha43||Added: Apr 22 2005||Views/Reads: 1704/1036||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|In northern Michigan there is a very strong belief in the Dogman theory, a part wolf/dog and a part man beast that only appears in the seventh year of every decade. I used to be a non-beleivera...|
Letter In The Attic I live in Northern Michigan, in an area with more than its share of Mother Nature’s bounty. A sportsman’s and naturalist’s paradise. Many people still run trap lines. Fishing in the streams, rivers, lakes and the Great Lakes is unequaled. The odd pheasant, numerous woodcock, grouse, partridge, and many types of ducks and geese keep the wing shooter happy. Cottontails, snowshoe’s, black, gray, and fox squirrels abound. We still have enough bears to have a regular hunting season. The Elk herd has grown to the point that it supports a spring and fall hunting season, just like the turkey hunt. Between bow and arrow, musket, and rifle season, you can take up to four deer per year. We have our share of non-game animals as well; Bald eagles, hawks, skunk, opossum, muskrat, weasel, otter, beaver, raccoon, coyote, fox, martins, badger, bobcat, and lynx. Truly a nature lovers Mecca. Some people around these parts strongly believe in the existence of a different species, “Dogman”. A half man and half wolf-like beast that barks and can walk upright, is far bigger than any normal wolf, and chooses to dine on humans and other flesh in the seventh year of every decade. There are tales, poems, and songs dedicated to the Dogman theory, prompted by some gruesome mutilations that did actually occur in the seventh year of decades long ago. Personally, the Dogman theory, men who turn wolf, rated right up there with the tooth fairy, Leprechauns, and the Easter Bunny; until recently. I was helping some cousins clean out the attic at the old homestead in Lodi. My Grandmother had passed away at the ripe old age of 98 and we were sorting and dividing all the personal items, getting the place ready for the big estate auction. My brother Lynn was helping in the downstairs bedrooms, but he came up stairs to tell us that lunch would be ready by the time we washed our hands. As he turned to head back downstairs, he grabbed an old-yellowed envelope off the trash pile and started to read it on his way out. As he slowed his decent, he stopped on the third step down, read some more, and then summoned all of us to him. The letter was from Grandpa, written in France during World War I; it was addressed to Grandma. It was dated March 26th, 1917. Grandpa talked about the horrors of the poison gas that both sides were using, the mud and bitter cold of trench warfare, and the manually dropped bombs from the biplanes, who’s numbers were ever increasing. Lynn chuckled and said he would provide a little live entertainment by reading the letter in its entirety to the whole group during lunch. Hurrying down, we all made a sandwich, grabbed a bowl of soup, and eagerly sat down to dine and listen to this nearly century old correspondence. Between bites, Lynn put on a great show as he started to read. After the opening about combat and the front lines, Grandpa asked about the winter snowfall, the condition of the farm buildings, and his lovely new bride. Then he seemed to be addressing a problem that Grandma may have written him about. The letter went as follows: “I was afraid you were going to be the bearer of some bad news when you told me that mom had put the spring lambs back in the old henhouse. It’s just too close to the swamp and too far away from the main barnyard or any activity. When I was a baby, we lost a pair of oxen back there. Ten years ago, we lost every chicken and duck that we raised back there, that’s why the henhouse is empty. “I don’t want to alarm you my dear, but think about what year it is! Let me tell you about the Goodwin brothers in another seventh year of a decade, 1907. “East of Pierson Creek, in Sharon, there was a logging camp owned by Click here to read the rest of this story (155 more lines)
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