Case File #22: "Blind Man Sees Footprints"

October 15th, 2003

Subject arrived at my office at 12:53 PM. Henceforth referred to as 'J'. He is a Latino male, aged 22. Approximately 5'10", 150 lbs. He smelled of cigarettes and kept his sunglasses on. He brought a service animal with him–an elderly golden retriever named Guppy.

J was referred to me by a previous client, see file #17. 

We made small talk and I confirmed cursory information. J has lived in the city his whole life. He has been blind since birth. There is no history of mental illness in his family that he's aware of. He currently resides with his mother and older sister.

He has been to several specialists and psychiatrists over the past year, seeking an explanation for the phenomena he has encountered. We briefly discussed what happened to him over the phone, prior to our meeting. At that time he expressed resistance to being recorded, though he has become more receptive to the idea. 

The following is a transcript of J describing his experience. Minor edits were made for clarity. Full tape filed in archive, document index #220983.

Read More

Dogs Will Hunt

Far enough north, the winter seems like a sentient creature. Its ragged breath can make the trees tremble. It howls and moans as it whips snowy tears through the biting cold air. The winter feeds, like any other predator. It consumes the weak and ill-prepared like a wolf picking off stragglers from a herd of sheep. 

On bitter nights, when my knees ache and I sit with my feet towards the fire, I wonder how my ancestors ever survived. I wonder why they possibly thought they should build a town here. But humans are relentless in their quest to conquer nature. Even the most inhospitable tundra must be settled and tamed. 

Pickett is a small town. I wouldn’t expect you’d ever driven past it, unless you make a habit of driving through Montana, near the Canadian border. It’s a town full of ranchers. Old cowpokes and farmers who’ve been waking with the sun to till the land their whole lives. It’s about as close knit a community as you’re likely to find. Idle gossip is the only social currency that matters, and anyone with secrets best bury them deeper than bedrock. 

That’s why the official records say Oliver Watson died of natural causes. Exposure on a cold winter night. The records don’t say nothing about the mangled chickens, lost pets, or the missing girl that led up to his death. 

It’s been so many years since it all happened. Anyone who remembers never talks about it. The young people think it’s just a story to tell around the campfire. Another brick in the endless lore surrounding that godforsaken stretch of train tracks in the rolling fields outside of town. 

The tracks don’t connect to anything, you see. It’s a two mile stretch of steel, starting from nowhere and leading right back to it. 

There’s no shortage of stories about how the railroad was gonna come through and make Pickett a much bigger town. Stories about con artists who stole good people’s money and did just a few days work on a grand construction project before disappearing. The truth of it is probably lost to time. Pickett is too insignificant to have proper history books about it. Local myths are as good as fact, as there’s nothing to dispute them. 

I gave up on trying to correct most stories years ago. People think I’m some crazy old man, ranting and raving about things that couldn’t possibly be true. 

But sixty ain’t that old. I’ve got a perfectly good grasp on my mental faculties. And what happened to Ollie was so terrifying and downright bizarre that it’s been seared into my brain for life. 

Read More

The Sunshine Slasher

Warning: the following story contains descriptions of gore, harm to children, and themes of sexual violence. Reader discretion is advised.

During the summer of 1999, there was a string of murders in a twenty mile radius around Sunshine, Minnesota. It wasn’t the sort of place you’d expect a serial killer to crop up. The whole population was just over fifteen hundred people. There was a single building that housed the K-12 school. There was just one grocery store. One gas station. Old folks left their doors unlocked at night. There wasn’t ever much theft or petty crime. Everybody knew everybody else, and strangers didn’t often have much cause to pass through.

I was born in Sunshine, just like my parents, and their parents, on and on back through the generations since our family immigrated from Scandinavia. Like most people in town, we were tall, and stocky, with fair skin and pronounced midwestern accents. Bag is pronounced like ‘beg’ and any food can be made in casserole form if you are creative enough. 

My two best friends lived on my block. Patrick Otternoose, the buck-toothed, bespectacled disaster, and Violet Espinoza, with her curly dark hair and small, perfectly-centered nose. The three of us would make snowmen, and drink copious amounts of hot chocolate, and play video games all winter. When summer came and the snow melted, we’d ride our bikes around town, seeing what sort of trouble we could stir up.

In the summer of 1999, I was eleven years old. Just out of fifth grade, heading into sixth. I think I was still too young to really understand the panic that rippled through our town when the murders started. But I was old enough to notice how every adult’s face looked stricken and afraid.

Read More

Anglerfish

Coyotes will sometimes lure domestic dogs out into the woods by playing with them. A single coyote will approach the dog, ears forward, tail up, acting friendly as can be. It may even roll on its back and expose its belly in a show of submission, to draw the dog into a bout of mock wrestling. Gradually, the games will push farther and farther away from home. Deep into the forest. That’s when the rest of the pack appears. Clusters. The dog’s new friend becomes its executioner as the pack begins to attack. 

Read More