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Letter In The Attic (standard:fantasy, 2116 words)
Author: Alpha43Added: Apr 22 2005Views/Reads: 2103/1317Story 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 

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 

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 

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

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