Book 575

The tattered paperback had no cover. Its opening pages frayed around the edges. The first page had a hole manifesting in the middle, like a window shade pulled away from the sill. The letter "S" in bold print peeked in from behind. The binding had been repaired with a swatch of silver duct tape, so worn, it had several long creases along the spine, and the back cover was beginning to peel away from the rest of the book. In fact, the first quarter of the book had separated from the rest, solely held in place by the duct tape. One careless page turn, and the book would fall apart. Despite its condition, all of the book pages were present and accounted for. Just beaten to shit out of love.

Justin carried it to the front to buy it. Gently placing it on the counter, he pulled out his cell phone to tap to pay. The cashier's eyes widen at the sight of the lump of pages on the counter.

"Ah, I'm not sure how this..." She prodded it with her index finger, "Made it to the stacks."

Justin shrugged, "My lucky day, I found it. How much?"

"I have no idea. I need to look it up." She began to flip through its pages, "There’s no sticker." She sighed and flipped it over to the back cover. The words on the cover were worn and faded. The woman squinted, "I think it says, 'Gilded Leaf Publishing." Justin fidgeted as she typed the information into the computer.

"Nothing's coming up." She bent down under the counter.

"I'll give ya $5 for it." Justin offered.

"No. I want the right price." Justin jumped as she popped back up and slammed a binder onto the counter. "It has to be in here." The laminated pages made a thrppt sound as she flipped through them.

"Book 66, 183, 291. I have to go to the back for the other binder." She announced, slamming the binder shut, and walked away behind a beaded curtain.

Justin lightly picked up the paperback book and placed it into his messenger bag, wedging it between his tablet and laptop to provide it some security on its journey home. A lump of a plastic bag was wedged in the inside pocket began to move and chirp. He zipped it up quickly, peering behind the counter, straining to see between the beads. The bookkeeper wasn’t paying attention, only a shadow in motion.

He slowly backed out of the store. The sun was bright and felt warm on his face despite it being only April. Justin decided to walk very quickly to the park to read.

Meanwhile, Martha, the Bookkeeper, was in the back of the shop, digging through her desk for the other binder. She found the second faded blue binder; the plastic cover was torn and wrinkled at the corners. She opened it and found the book listing, "Book 575: The Great Silence of the Oxford Township. 1713."

Martha dropped the binder. "Are you kidding me?" She yelled, scooped it back up, and ran back to the counter.

"Hey! Kid!" She stopped midsentence. A string of beads entangled itself in her hair. One-handed, she yanked it out. A chunk of black hair forever wrapped around an orange bead. The kid was gone, and so was the paperback.

A chill shot down her spine. The ratty, old book was the only copy by the town's founder, Sterling Smith. She ran back through the beads, grabbed her keys and a pair of scissors from the desk, and tore out of the store, running towards the Common.

Justin sat on a wooden bench beneath the Founder's Tree, an ancient Oak in the center of the park. He slowly turned the pages of the book, stopping when he came to a heavily notated section somewhere in the middle of the book.

The town was established in 1673 on land acquired from Black James, nestled in a region that was once the vibrant home of the Nipmuc Tribe. This area, rich in history and culture, was to be transformed into what would later be known as Oxford. The Nipmuc people, deeply connected to their ancestral land, found it difficult to grasp the concept that the territory they had inhabited for generations was no longer theirs. Despite our earnest attempts to communicate, a language barrier proved insurmountable, as their native tongue was vastly primitive.

In May 1674, tensions reached a boiling point. A group of determined townsmen took the drastic step of forcibly removing the tribe from the area. To safeguard the budding settlement from future incursions, Fort Hill was constructed, standing as a vigilant sentinel over the township. The following year, in 1675, marked a period of unrest as the Nipmuc tribe launched three assaults on the settlement. Their efforts seemed focused on reclaiming the land around what is now known as "Deerson Pond," a place of seeming importance to them.

Amidst these turbulent times, several townsfolk mysteriously vanished, adding an air of tension and fear to the community. Ebenezer Davis had the misfortune of finding the only remains of one recovered victim, his wife’s head, in a tree by the Cow Yard. The town's auxiliary, led by the courageous John Sterling Smythe and Daniel Whithers, engaged in a fierce battle that ultimately secured victory. In recognition of their bravery and to honor the sacrifices made, a statue now stands on the site, commemorating the town's heroes and their pivotal role in shaping the area's history.

A Franciscan friar from Quebec arrived in town several years after King Phillip’s War. He had taken a solemn vow of poverty and service, dedicating his life to the arduous task of converting the so-called savages to the ways of God. With determination, he managed to learn their tongue and eventually passed on an intriguing tale, shrouded in mystery.

We found ourselves in the dimly lit Tavern, sharing mugs of frothy ale. I must admit, it seemed that the good friar was quite deep in his cups, his cheeks flushed with drink. He began to recount a story of how the tribe's elders believed that the People themselves had been the guardians of this land since time immemorial. They claimed that the area we call the Common was a mystical doorway into the shadow realm, where dark beings and shadowy figures frequently passed through. The Friar called these things “Wendigo” and “Mishipeshu”. I laughed and told him, “It’s a good thing Reverand Congreve wasn’t hearing this. He’d have you hanging by your thumbs speaking of such blasphemy.”

“No, no.” The Friar drained his cup, “It’s true. I’ve seen them with my own eyes. Knock on the tree. Feed the water. Iron drives them away.” The Friar, at this point, unsteadily waved at the barkeep for another drink. The young Martha Clark brought him a full cup. The Friar drank half of it in one gulp. Wiping his mouth, “Now, where was I?”

“You were telling me about the superstitions of the Indians.” I prompted him.

“Ah, yes.

"We tried to warn them, you know," the Friar sighed, his gaze distant.

"Warn who?" I asked, leaning closer.

"The town leaders. The Elders, bless their wisdom, saw the danger coming. They pleaded with them, told them what was lurking in the woods." He shook his head, a somber expression on his face. "But their pleas fell on deaf ears. The Town leaders... they just wouldn't listen."

"And now?"

"Now, those mysterious forces wander the woods freely," he said, a shiver running through his frame. "A haunting presence among the trees. And the worst part? Our people, according to the Elders, have no idea how to fight them. The Holy trappings of the Church: the Cross, Holy water, none of it. No idea at all."

The good friar, overwhelmed by the weight of his tale, slumped down, facedown onto the wooden table. I gently carried him home, ensuring he was set to bed safely, leaving the tavern's flickering candlelight behind.

Justin got up, his thumb keeping his place in the book, and walked around the Oak tree. Legends said it was older than the town; by its width, Justin guessed that it’s easily 400 years old. Gnarled branches and a bulbous base, the tree jetted and buckled towards the sky as it was a struggle for it to grow tall and straight, as is common with its kind. Justin sat back down on the bench and flipped back open the book. No longer being gentle, a ragged page floated to the ground, resting on a pile of brown Oak leaves. At a quick glance, it looked like a inky drawing of a panther.

He flipped and scanned the pages. More talk of Indians, missing people, a bad winter of 1775, blah, blah. Justin jumped ahead to the chapter titled "List and Dates of the Missing," which contained pages filled with names and dates of individuals who had vanished from the town over the last 300 years or so. It struck him as peculiar because the most recent entry for a missing person was dated April 1, 2025. Puzzled, he flipped through the aging pages in search of a publication date but found none. Shaking his head, he continued to read. The book was barely held together, its worn binding hinting that it had not been written in the current year. He mused that it must be a typo, more likely meant to read 1925 or 1825.

As he turned the pages, it naturally fell open to a Chapter 6 detailing "The Superstitions of Oxford: The Witch Craze of 1718, The 1976 Fellowship House Cult, and the Influence of the 1980s Satanic Panic."

A few years after the town was established and the so-called "Indian problem" was resolved, a new menace descended upon the sleepy community. In the Spring of 1718, a number of children mysteriously vanished. Soon after, Farmer Issac Millers cattle were savagely attacked by an unknown creature, and the crops of Farmer Benjamin Walker inexplicably withered. Initially, the blame fell on the local Indians, but the town leader, John Sterling Smythe, reminded everyone of the relocation efforts a few years earlier during which the Oxford auxiliary had driven the tribe south. Reverend Congreve agreed, proclaiming that these events were signs of the devil's work and said it was the sign, the presence of a witch in town.

Goody Abigail Jones, the widow of Farmer Ephraim Jones, continued to reside on her land, refusing to leave and allow her son-in-law, the son of Farmer Walker, Jonathan, to take control of the property. Upon the town’s inspection, her land was found to be thriving, with healthy crops and robust cattle. A girl's bonnet was discovered on her property, suspected to belong to Prudence Clark. Goody Jones defended herself, claiming she had made it for her granddaughter. Under the intense scrutiny of Reverend Congreve, Goody Jones confessed to abducting the children and sabotaging the neighboring farms. She also implicated her accomplices: Goody Mary Thompson, Rebecca Walker, and Ruth Adams. They were hanged from the Founders Tree, their bodies left to sway in the open for three days before being interred in unconsecrated ground near the French river, a grim reminder to the townsfolk.[1] [Author Note: 18 more people vanished after the witches were caught and punished through the Fall of 1718 and into the Winter of 1719. No further witch investigations ensued. See Chapter 8, “The Great Hunts of Oxford” to learn more about the 1718 Bear attacks and See Appendix C for the full list of names of those missing.]

Leaving the accusations of witchcraft behind, Justin thumbed through to the next section about the silly cult that lived in town when his Gramma was a kid.

In the summer of 1976, a group of young kids purchased the barren and isolated property known as Goody Jones Farm. They transformed it into what appeared to be a serene commune, though whispers in the community suggested it was more akin to a cult. Chief Walker had better things to do with his time than spy on naked and stoned hippies. Besides, they cleaned up the Common, planted flowers, and handed out flyers about recycling.

Then one fine May Day, Bobbi Daniels was fishing on the banks of the French River, hooked into what he thought was a large Pike; instead, it turned out to be Sherman Lewis’ head. Young Master Lewis was last seen getting into a brightly colored VW Bus. Faced with growing panic and limited resources, Chief Walker, only having a force of two officers (himself included), enlisted and deputized several townsfolk to aid in the apprehension of the commune members. According to the police report, the leader, wearing only a pair of dirty bellbottoms and a layer of necklaces, suddenly brandished a gun. In the end, there were no surviving Commune Members. [2 Author’s Note: A hand-drawn map of the Town Common was found on the scene. There was an arrow from the Founder’s Tree to Deerson Pond, along with what is believed to be a crude drawing of a chicken.

Justin plunged his hand into his bag, blindly clawing through the contents until his hand squeezed the plastic, lumpy shape. It squeaked. He removed his hand to flip through the book to the final section he was looking for: the missing teenagers. His dad talked about this all the time growing up. He dated Katie.

In 1982, a group of teenagers decked out in leather jackets, faded band T-shirts, and ripped jeans ventured into the woods. Their destination was a secluded spot perfect for their wild keg parties and roaring bonfires. It was known among the local kids as “The Log”. This group mysteriously vanished into the forest depths. Weeks later, a lone girl (Katie Walker) emerged from the woods, her clothes were tattered, her skin smeared with dirt and grime, and her eyes were bloodshot. A thin, broken branch of an Oak tree jutted out from behind her right ear. Three green, wilted leaves bounced as she talked. Her voice cracked as she explained what happened. She claimed that supernatural beings had taken her friends.

According to her, it all started as a prank. They had knocked at the base of an ancient Oak tree, just beneath its gnarled, protruding knot, and followed it by sacrificing a chicken by the pond. One of their group, John, had discovered an old, paperback book that claimed such acts could summon a powerful daemon to do one's bidding, bound to them for all eternity to do their will. But that’s not what happened. A terrifying presence, a beast, walked like a man, but had antlers and no flesh. Only bones. It dragged all of her friends into the murky water of the pond. Katie stated she got away by hiding underneath the Hero’s Statue.

Her parents, desperate to protect her from further harm, sent her to an all-girls Christian camp in the Berkshires, hoping for a semblance of rehabilitation. Meanwhile, the police, skeptical of her account, concluded that the teenagers were likely heavy drug users, as many had prior arrests for marijuana and LSD. They theorized that the group met their grim fate in a drug deal gone awry. Despite the contrasting narratives, everyone acknowledged the girl's extraordinary fortune to have survived the ordeal.

Justin Miller puts the book back into his bag exchanging for the shopping bag lump. Rising to his feet, he meanders around the sprawling Oak tree, its crooked branches casting shadows on the ground. He spots the thick, gnarled knot at the base of the trunk and raps it with his knuckles. Satisfied, he turns and strides toward the shimmering pond, its surface reflecting the afternoon sunlight in dazzling patterns.

As he reaches the pond's edge, Martha Smythe appears. Yet, she remains silent as she watches Justin hurl a dead chicken into the water, breaking the tranquility with a splash.

The water starts to tremble, as if caught up by a light breeze sending ripples outward. Justin steps into the water, the waves washing over his shoes. A sudden, sharp POP! Ricocheted across the Common. The quiet chirping of birds from the nearby trees ceased, replaced by the frantic flutter of wings as they erupted from the branches, escaping into the sky. A swirling black portal appeared in the center of the pond and began to drift towards the shore. A dark, antlered figure shoots out and it seizes Justin by the shoulders. The claws dig into his skin, drawing streaks of warm blood that drip down his arms. Panic and pain flash across Justin's face as he struggles to comprehend the situation, but before he can react, he is violently jerked away, disappearing into the swirling depths beyond. A shadowy, cat-like creature briefly emerges from the swirling vortex

Martha hurls a pair of glinting steel scissors with remarkable accuracy at the base of the portal. The scissors strike with a sharp clang that echoes through the air, and the portal collapses in on itself, sealing the sinister forces back into their watery abyss with a final, decisive snap.