Clear Skies and Knocking, October 22nd of 1948

The Birbour Cannery’s built-ins were suitable enough living quarters . . . that is if you’re preferable to cold, brisk drafts and mildewed wood. The windows were at least glass, Doctor Malone Trenton thought gratefully. They could be the opened holes of the Tiawit tribal mounds back in the Congo. Only instead of mosquitos the size of humming-birds, Alaska’s primary danger lie in the freezing cold. Autumn had already passed, but the winter was unusually mild thus far according to Mirabell, the cannery’s forthright owner. All the same, it was nevertheless freezing in the Doctor’s room. This was extenuated by the constant dripping of cool rain through ceiling cracks and racing down the room’s two windows. The wind howled and world shook outside with every flash of lightening and every boom of thunder. A fire crackled in the corner stove, fighting bravely to stave off the weather. Mirabell lay a pot of coffee on the table that he lounged beside, adding two small cups for him and his guest.

Doctor Trenton checked his wristwatch, an ornate Cyma given to him by a colleague from North Carolina in exchange for co-editing his doctorate thesis. The hands read nine o’clock sharp, A.M.

“Where is our esteemed guest?” Doctor Trenton asked. “He’s well over an hour late!”

“Oh shush, now,” Mirabell scolded. “The Sheriff is the only lawman in Birbour. He’s likely busy. Be patient, my child.”

Child? The Doctor thought indignantly, resigning himself to relax with a cup of coffee rather than to bicker with the old bar-wench.

Another five minutes passed before the built-ins exterior door opened. The darkened silhouette of a man filled the doorway. Side-swept rain blurred the area behind him like the background of a picture frame, only partially illuminated by the buildings exterior lighting.

The sun had neglected to rise in Birbour.

“Good evening, Boris!” Mirabell chimed. “Come on in. I just set out some coffee for you and the Doctor.”

“Thank you,” the hulking man responded, moving into and closing the door tightly behind him. His accent was rough like gravel and coated in a thick Russian accent. It was not dissimilar to those heard from the wall in Eastern Berlin. Doctor Trenton remembered the sound distastefully, struggling to not apply his past experiences to his present. The helpful difference, of course, was found in the quality of the words—those ones shouted from the West were far less pleasant. The Sheriff hung his coat and hat.

Doctor Trenton stood, offering his hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Sheriff . . .?”

“Osipov,” The Sheriff finished his sentence. “Sheriff Boris Osipov. Whichever name, first or last, that makes you most comfortable. I do not care.” He sat, ignoring the Doctor’s handshake.

“Well,” Doctor Trenton sat, displeased with his lack of courtesy. He joined the Sheriff at the table, sipping Mirabell’s gracious morning brew. The woman came across as a little rude at times and last night’s dinner left much to be desired, but her hospitality was evident even as she hurried off to play cards with Captain Monet halfway through the evening meal. “I appreciate you coming out to meet with me on such short notice. I hear you’re Birbour’s only law.”

“Hmm,” Sheriff Boris grunted. “I am. Don’t get used to special treatment. There are a hundred and twenty-five people here in Birbour, well, a hundred and twenty-four considering the topic of our meeting. Each has their own problems and each rely on me to solve them.”

“Boris!” Mirabell exclaimed. “Be nice to the Doctor! He came a long way just to see his friend, only to find him missing! It must be quite the shock and he doesn’t need you making it any worse!”

Boris held up his leather-gloved hands. “Yes, Mirabell. No offenses to you, Doctor.”

“None taken,” Trenton leaned back in his chair. “You sound like a busy man and I don’t wish to waste your time. You say that Adam is missing?”

“Mhm. Him and about half of Berry Mueson’s livestock.” Boris responded.

“Old Berry’s having trouble?” Mirabell asked worriedly.

Boris’ dark eyes fell on her. “If you’d like to join our conversation, Mirabell, you might as well pull up a chair.”

Surprisingly enough to Doctor Trenton, she did, folding her hands in front of her quietly. Boris poured himself a coffee before he continued, drinking it black.

“Mueson found his livestock dogs dead last night. They were torn to shreds by something-”

“Oh my gosh, that’s terrible!” Mirabell interrupted.

Boris ignored her. “Two of his milk cows escaped as well. Whatever got his dogs left a hole in the fence the size of a car. Some sheep are missing too. We tried to track them this morning, but the storm is too much. We couldn’t find their trail.”

As if to emphasize his point, a flash of lightening cracked across the sky, illuminating the room like taking a photograph.

“Yes, yes, that is all very tragic, but I fail to see what the common disappearance of some farm animals has to do with the matter at hand. What happened to Adam Peterson?”

“There was nothing common about this, Doctor.” Boris’ eyes glazed over as he stared into the brown liquid of his cup with a haunting expression. “Those dogs . . . all twisted and tied like that . . .” He mumbled.

“Sheriff? I didn’t quite catch that?” The Doctor leaned forward.

The Sheriff jolted back to reality. “Oh! Yes. Adam Peterson. The meteorologist. Lived on the outskirts of town, east of the Rope Pub against the base of the Plyset Mountains. At first no one suspected anything was amiss, him having the habit of venturing into the forest or taking his dinghy out to who-knows-where to collect data. After a few days, however, Morgan Muller at the Pub came to me asking about him. Adam has missed more drinks than usual and Morgan was beginning to worry for his friend. I brushed it off at first . . . that is, until Adam’s journal washed up on the beach. He guarded that book like his life depended on it--and for all I know it did. He wouldn’t have just dropped it . . .” Boris scratched his palm. “That was about two weeks ago.”

Doctor Trenton’s entire demeanor flattened, his shoulders slumping. “Have you no leads?”

“Beyond this?” Boris procured a small brown-leather journal from an internal coat pocket, sliding it across the table. “Nothing.”

Trenton’s eyes widened as he took it. Adam would never lose this, he thought. The duo attended university together, developing a strong friendship that spanned well past graduation and they shared an intense passion for journaling. As anxiety shook the Doctor’s nerves, he found himself patting his own pocket for the reassurance of his own journal.

“Did you read it?” He asked.

“I did,” Sheriff Boris responded. “It was interesting, surely, but Mr. Peterson did little in the way of documenting his objectives or their locations.”

“I see . . .” Doctor Trenton thumbed the pages. “May I?”

“Of course. I’ve finished with the thing anyways. I suppose it’s fitting for you to have it. You’re the closest to kin that Adam has here in Birbour.”

"So you've given up the search?"

Boris shrugged. "People have a way of wandering off in Alaska. This is nothing new."

With that rather depressing comment, the Sheriff bid Mirabell and Trenton adieu, resigning himself to resume the duties of maintaining law and order in Birbour. As the door closed behind him, ending the cacophony of the storm, Mirabell fixed Trenton another pot of coffee.

“I’ll be back around noon with a light lunch. I hope you like canned salmon!” Before the Doctor could object, she had gone through the built-in’s internal door and into the cannery proper.

With no nerves to pursue her or to protest, he turned his attention to the matter of Adam Peterson’s disappearance. The ocean had claimed most of the journal, smudging its ink into indecipherable gibberish, but to God’s grace three of the near-last entries were somewhat legible.

October 2nd, 1948

I miss warmth. I get that the Society of Meteorological Studies requires my station in order to best explore the jet stream, but why they don’t assign someone with less credentials, I’ll never know. Perhaps the Associate Director knows that I envy his position and ushered me to obscurity on purpose. It could be a ploy to nullify me as competition.

I hope he never reads this journal, but I really hate the fellow.

At least Birbour isn’t the Artic and the locals are friendly enough. Morgan serves a stiff drink and the nights at the Rope Pub are decent as long as the Flurry Brothers don’t cause a ruckus.

Regardless of any headaches from the aforementioned mixologist, I am to return to Data Station One on the morn, restarting my collection rotation through the odd numbered stations in the mountains.

At least the trees provide some reprieve from the wind, my dinghy proving ineffective in that regard, but it is mine all-the-same.

No response from Doctor Malone Trenton yet. Iris must’ve sent out my letter with the last export of canned salmon and iron, so I won’t be hearing back from him until after my return.

I pray this goes quickly. Something in the air makes me nervous . . . well, more so than usual.

The next two entries were smudged beyond comprehension. Doctor Trenton continued on.

October 5th, 1948

Stations One, Three, and Seven are completed, Station Five is no longer active. Something must’ve hit it, probably a moose or squirrel considering how far up the mechanism was. I found it trampled beneath the tree that it was secured to. Regardless of how or who may have done this (looking at you, Rottenburough!), all readings point to an increase in humidity and electric fields in the air, indicative of an oncoming storm. I should hurry, but the terrain is anything but forgiving.

This is not to mention the woods themselves. Over the last few days I have been blessed with bright weather and a pleasant breeze during the day, but the nights bring discomfort. They’re cold and as I huddle around my fire each night, using the same campsites that I have scattered throughout Plyset and Birbour, I can’t help but develop the eeriest feeling that I am being watched by something in the treeline, just beyond the light of my fire. But when I investigate, igniting my old crank-torch, there is nothing there.

I cannot be sure, but last night I awoke to something in my camp. It may have been a dream, but there was the clang of my cooking pan and when I called out, hoping that it was a curious hunter, the noise ceased. It was as if the thing had froze at my voice, watching me in the darkness.

Well, I say darkness, but the twinkle of two fireflies caught my eye about eleven feet from the ground.

They must’ve escaped Rottenburough’s entomology collection. I’ve warned the Iron Baron repeatedly of the dangers of bringing live specimen into a new environment.

He’ll hear from me when I return. I may bring Boris into this as well. Rottenburough will have to listen to me then.

It was strange though . . . those fireflies were much larger than any I’ve ever seen.

“That is the second negative mention of Mr. Rottenburough . . .” Muttered the Doctor as he flipped the page.

October 6th, 1948

I am lost.

At the break of dawn something massive hit a nearby tree. I rushed out of my covering, my nerves shocked and my hairs on end, shouting the whole way, and found my campsite as empty as it should be. I called out again. Nothing responded at first, just the breeze sifting through the tree needles.

Then it started.

A tap tap tapping like the sound of a large rock hitting a tree. I dismissed it as the sound of a woodpecker or maybe the natural inclinations of a lived-in forest . . . but as I began to gather my things it happened again.

Tap tap tap!

It happened in quick succession and in a peculiar rhythm. The second occurrence was much louder than the first. It was closer as well, almost as if its source were moving. And then again it happened, ever closer. I shouted into the woods to only the torment of natural silence.

At that point, the sound ceased and my entire body ignited in a frenzy. I imagined all sorts of evils . . . the Hide Behind of Oregon, the Chupacabra of Puerto Rico . . . all sorts of horrors to accompany the cold sweat pooled upon my brow. It was not a moment after I finally relaxed, writing off the noise as the imagination of a travel-wearied mind, that it happened again.

This time, the tap tap tapping came from behind me.

Right behind me.

My feet moved on their own accord as I sprinted in a mad dash away from the thing. A primal instinct had overtaken my senses. It was as if my ancestors feared for my life more than I, instilling this fear of when earth meets trees into my very being. They threw me into the wilderness with desperation. Tree limbs licked at my arms, roots snagged and tore at my clothing, and direction was not even an afterthought. By the time I stopped, any hope of recovering my camp had vanished into the dense Taigas alongside the tapping.

I’m resting now by a stream. I plan on following it to the ocean once I recover my stamina. I am so very grateful that I didn’t leave my journal at camp, instinctively pushing it and its attached pen into my jacket pocket as I fled.

I-

The journal cuts off abruptly with no smudges to indicate further authorship. Doctor Trenton sighed, rubbing his weary eyes before checking his watch. Lunch was fast approaching, and he could only fathom his friend was taken by some mad native or frightful Alaskan grizzly.

Nevertheless, he resigned himself to finding Adam. He owed it to him for their time in university.

As he tossed the notebook onto the table, it flipped open to the very last page. It was a good fifty or so pages from the last full entry. On it, written in water-damaged, rushed, sloppy penmanship, lay a single phrase.

Those were not fireflies.