Red Puddles and People, December 23rd of 1948

Reverend Hugh Gregory and Doctor Malone Trenton stood upon the docks, huddled in a circle around a twisted lump. In their companionship was a distraught Sheriff Boris Osipov, hands clasped firmly behind his back as he viewed the lump analytically. His blue coat and hood were soaked like sponges, his brow furrowed over beady eyes. Another person, the town’s medical practitioner/postwoman, Iris Henness, was crouched over the lump. She mumbled to herself incoherently, her deep blue eyes and sharp features cutting the drizzle as it found her. The early morning wind whipped at the group, peeling back layer upon layer of salt-soaked, fishy, near-frozen clothes. The twisted lump had soaked the dock in red, staining the wood even through the puddled rain. The gang of hysteric adults took extra care to keep their shoes from sharing such a fate, moving in such a way that would seem disrespectful to an unknowing bystander.

“What could have done this?” Iris spoke, more so to God than to her compatriots, although her eyes cut up to Doctor Trenton. She waited expectantly.

He shrugged. “I’m an ecologist, not a criminal analyst.”

“You think this was done by a human?” Sheriff Boris asked incredulously.

Doctor Trenton raised a finger to speak but hesitated, his demeanor deflating. “I just don’t know of any animals that could do such a thing to a man. And even if there are, I can’t fathom why. Animals, even the most dastardly predators, don’t act so maliciously. They only kill to survive.” He gestured toward the lump. “Plus, do you see any bite marks on him?”

Iris looked to the body, then to the Doctor. “No.”

“Anything missing? Liver? Other organs?”

“No.” She shivered.

He shrugged. “Then I suppose that’s that.”

They stood in muted silence. Even the melodic ocean hid behind an indecipherable buzzing, the whole of it in mourning. The lump, which was once a cheery captain by the name of Malcolm Monet, was folded around a dock post in a way that was not dissimilar to a confectionery pretzel. His pale eyes were open wide with shock and horror. The dripping red lines that dribbled down his chin were once plumes of red mist. Iris surmised that they had been the result of forced exhalations as his lungs were crushed in the attack. The conclusion was obvious, Captain Monet was alive and well when the culprit had begun its human origami. He had felt every snap of bone, twist of tendon, and removal from socket has the murderer tied him, quite literally, to the post.

“You’re saying you found him like this?” Sheriff Boris asked the Reverend.

Reverend Gregory jumped, startled from his stupor. He pulled his vestments tighter around him. “Ye-yes. I heard him cry out in the early hours of the morning. The rain had lulled and the wind temporarily abated. I heard a crash against the docks but supposed it to be another squall . . . then a sickening noise . . .”

“And no one else was awake in the Cannery? Mirabell? Doctor Trenton?”

Trenton shook his head.

“No. It was just me. I heard commotion and came to investigate. He was already . . .” The Reverend gulped. “Like this when I found him.”

The Sheriff eyed him dubiously. “So everyone else was asleep. Why were you awake in the middle of the night?” He swiveled to observe the Cannery. “Your window is on the opposite end of the building alongside the rest of the built-ins. Were you in your room?”

Iris stood, brushing her lap free of a puddle that had coalesced in the folds of her coat. “Perhaps for a glass of water?”

“But the kitchen is with the built-ins on the other side . . .” Doctor Trenton gasped, watching his brother. The entire ensemble waited eagerly for the Reverend’s response.

He stammered, “I-I-I-”

“You’ve only been in town since October. You and your brother, here.”

“Hold up. Do not rope me into your suspicions! Relation in blood does not equate relation in deeds!” Doctor Trenton held up his hands defensively.

“Now that you mention it . . . things have been weird since you two arrived.” Iris commented. “Birbour has always been so isolated and anything but a tourist attraction. So for both a Reverend and a famous ecologist to arrive at the same time—let alone in the same boat . . . and to coincidentally discover their relationship, of which neither seems to have prior knowledge. It all seems too . . .”

“Narratively perfect?” Sheriff Boris finished her sentence. “It’s as if we’re in one of Lovecraft’s fantasies.”

“And likewise, the narrative you’re forming for me and my newfound brother is just that—a narrative. A fiction. A fantasy.”

“Nevertheless, it is suspicious.” Iris cocked her eyebrow.

Their attention returned to Reverend Gregory, who took a deep breath to compose himself. He swallowed hard, pinching his nose. “This is all so grotesque . . . No. No I did not do this. How could I? I’m just a man. The God I serve wouldn’t permit such an act!”

“Many of your God-serving compatriots committed far worse atrocities in Germany, Reverend.” Sheriff Boris replied.

“And the Russians were innocent?” Doctor Trenton rolled his eyes.

Boris huffed in annoyance.

“Peace, friends. Our enemy isn’t each other-”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Boris interrupted.

The Reverend ignored him. “I was simply using the restroom. Nothing more, nothing less. I had a rather hearty dinner, thanks to Mrs. Mirabell, and my stomach was feeling rebellious.”

“Hmmm,” the Sheriff mused, dissatisfied.

Doctor Trenton eyed him suspiciously. Their link was unique, having the same father but different mothers. It was a fact that took a toll on both men’s understanding of life, family, and fatherhood. How a man could create a son in one state, claim to love it, and abandon it to create another elsewhere . . . the whole ordeal merited confusion. Scientifically, it was of no fault to their shared father. He was simply doing what his biological clock encouraged, but to the Reverend . . . Trenton wondered what ripples festered beneath Gregory’s collected exterior. What cracks were forming in his faith.

Their attention returned to the body.

“He must’ve come out to save the M.M.S. Monet,” Iris commented. The small fishing vessel had been slammed against the dock, causing it to capsize. Only the secured end still protruded from the water, it’s name painted with loving cursive on the bow’s port side.

“Maybe the squall caused it to hit the dock?” Boris added.

Reverend Gregory’s breathing slowed as he stared blankly at his friend. They had only known each other for a few weeks, but for someone who was used to isolation it might as well have been a year. Gregory wondered if Malcolm had felt the same.

He thought it was poetic in a way, for Malcolm to die wrapped around the same post that the Monet, named for Mallory, Malcolm’s dearly departed wife, clung so helplessly to.

Gregory clutched his chest, images of a woman and memories of a similarly fated romance danced behind his eyes. It reminded him of warm Bayou nights, swamp flowers and fishing, of a woman in white with ruby-red lips. It reminded him of her, yes, but also of Iris. His eyes found hers, crystal blue like Alaskan lakes.

Trenton cleared his throat, stepping between the two. “Come, Ms. Iris, let us return to the Cannery. This is no place for a lady.”

“Hah!” She huffed. “I’m this town’s real doctor. Do you think I haven’t seen something,” she glanced at Malcolm’s corpse, then quickly away, “similar?”

“Well . . . I sure hope you haven’t.” Gregory commented, perhaps a little too loud and a little too quickly.

Iris smiled softly, brushing Doctor Trenton’s hand from her shoulder. “I am very capable of walking on my own, thank you. Do you need help cleaning this up?” She asked Sheriff Boris.

“No,” He responded, his voice like the crunch of Russian gravel. “I want to look around a bit more. I feel as if we’re missing something.” His accent was thick, but the Americans in attendance understood that protesting was useless, if not altogether unnecessary.

“Just let me know if you change your mind,” she responded.

Trenton and Gregory exchanged a quick glance, mumbling similar accordance.

As she left the dock, Doctor Trenton her escort, Reverend Gregory took sentry beside the Sheriff.

“What do you think it is?” Boris asked, stooping down the get a closer look at the corpse. “Do you think this is related to those hunters going missing?”

The Reverend went pale. “I-I sure hope not.”

Since their arrival in October, four hunters have vanished into the Alaskan wilderness. The hunting party had left nothing but blood stains and a bent rifle suspended in a tree fifteen feet higher than any man could hope to place it.

Boris side-eyed him, returning to his work. “Do you think an animal did this? A bear, maybe?”

“No,” Gregory shook his head. “Definitely not.”

“Then I wonder . . .”

“DEMON!” A screech cut through the cool air, piercing their ears. A woman rushed down the dock, both men jumped to see who the hysteric oncomer was. She sprinted past them, clad in a black flowing nightgown. “MALCOLM!!!” She collapsed in a heap before the corpse, shaking uncontrollably and mumbling about dreams and suspicions.

“Mirabell . . .” Boris put a hand on her shoulder.

She clutched it. “He was fine just last night! We were talking about dreams and . . . and demons in the woods. Now look at him!”

“Demons?” Reverend Gregory joined her, blocking her view of Malcolm’s body.

“It-It’s just . . . oh, my God . . .”

Boris and Gregory exchanged a glance.

“What is it you American’s say? The holy cow? Holy mackerel?”

“I doubt it,” The Reverend smiled softly.

“Wh-what?” Mirabell stammered.

“Yeah. Clerical beef would never do such a thing, let alone a religious fish.”

His compatriots stared blankly.

Gregory’s smile faded as his cheeks turned red. He was never good in a crisis and this was exactly why.

After a moment, Mirabell collapsed into Gregory, laughing and sobbing maniacally.

The Sheriff stood. “Well . . . that was surprising. You should really, really work on your bedside manner.” There was suspicion in his words and Gregory knew this. Sane men didn’t make jokes at crime scenes, but Gregory never claimed sanity.

“No, no. I understand. The Reverend is just as shaken as I am, aren’t you, dear?” Mirabell commented.

She may have just saved me, Gregory thought.

“Y-yes. I just can’t imagine why God would ever let something so horrible happen.”

“This had nothing to do with God,” Mirabell’s tone flattened. “This . . . this is the work of a Demon.”

Boris frowned, Gregory with him.

The wind howled and thunder cracked. The storm resumed in earnest as the Reverend escorted Mirabell back to the Birbour Cannery for shelter. Sheriff Boris stayed behind, weathering the storm. Malcolm Monet lay twisted around the dock post, stuck in a perpetual state of nightmare.

Things in Birbour, Alaska were getting a little . . . interesting.