Mr. Marsh helped Peter with the logs, picking up the split pieces and staking them. "You know, Pete. You could do this part yourself."
"I know. But the doctor did say you should work that leg more, though." Peter said, his ax crashing down on the wood. It splintered in two and fell beside him. Mr. Marsh leaned down and picked it up with a groan. He had always had back problems, but they started to worsen as he aged.
Mr. Marsh laughed heartily, "Yeah, well, the guy's kind of a kook."
Peter cut into another piece, nodding in agreement. Dr. Mallard was not only a brilliant scientist but also the town doctor. He was probably one of the few people who actually did his job. Unfortunately, most people were somewhat corrupt.
Crater Hollow was a lovely little town situated in a large crater, but it was clear that most people actually needed to do their jobs. Maybe if they did, Peter's mother would be rotting in jail as she deserved.
If only the settlers who founded Crater Hollow could see the town now, they would cry at how it is being run. However, like most of Crater Hollow's history, those settlers had vanished. The great vanishing, as it was called, wasn't the only weird part of Crater Hollow.
Some say that the souls of the missing settlers were to blame for the mysterious things that happened around town. Others condemn the supposed military bunker in the woods. It was often said that if you listened closely at night, you could hear the screams of children left in the woods.
All Peter knew was that Crater Hollow sure had a lot of trees for being in a glacier-formed crater. But it was anyone's guess why the town wasn't named after the actual crater, Roberson's Crater.
The crater was named after Angus E. Roberson. He disappeared, and his body has never been found. "What do you think happened to Angus Roberson, Mr. Marsh?" Peter asked, leaning on his ax handle.
Mr. Marsh stopped stacking wood and looked at Peter like he was crazy. "Uh... Weird question. But I know he has an ancestor... Annastasia, I think."
Peter hit another piece of wood with his ax, "Her? Figures." Peter bent down on one knee and looked at the pile of wood. He touched his hand to the wood, running it down the length of the bark: claw marks, and massive ones at that.
Mr. Marsh stopped stacking and looked over at Peter. "What are you do... Woah." He gasped at the size of the marks.26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDi1xx7qQJF
"Bear, maybe?" Peter asked, worried. Mr. Marsh shook his head. The marks on the tree were far too chaotic to be a bear, not to mention their size was far too big to be any bear.
"Peter, why don't you take the day off." Mr. Marsh said, his voice was a little shaky. The sound of fear in his voice made Peter feel uneasy. There was something very wrong when a man like Jonathan Marsh was worried.
Peter nodded and put his ax away. Best not to argue with Mr. Marsh, he thought.
As Peter returned to his house, his mind was buzzing with thoughts. What could possibly have done that?
It reminded him of last week's newspaper. The murders had put the whole town on edge. A couple of local kids had been found gruesomely dismembered, blood everywhere. The photos in the paper showed horrific images of body parts hanging from trees and organs dangling from the victims' throats.
Many people had come to the conclusion that a monster was residing in the forests of Crater Hollow. It was clear that whatever killed them was not a human or a bear, but who would believe that a monster lived in Crater Hollow?
As he neared the door of his house, Peter suddenly remembered that tomorrow was the dance. He smiled at the thought. Tomorrow was going to be the best day of his life, besides the day he met Maria.
Peter walked in the door, and his mother was passed out on the couch as usual. He smiled, "Guess I won't have to worry about you."
He walked down the hallway and tugged on a string hanging from the ceiling, an old, rickety ladder creaking down. It definitely wasn't safe to climb, but there wasn't any other way to get into the attic.
He stepped up on the ladder and began his climb to the small attic. It was a dusty and cramped little space.
He walked to the back of the attic and toward an old wooden chest. A dusty plaque on the decrepit crate read, "Eugene Morgan."
The old thing was a family heirloom. It was built by Peter's great great great great grandfather, Eugene Morgan. The lock that kept it shut had long since broken and was only for aesthetic purposes at this point.
Peter leaned down to the chest, blowing a thick layer of dust from the top and opening it. Inside were a few items of importance to the Morgan family.
An old candle, a leather-bound journal, and a telescope lay on one side of an untouched black suit. On the other side, a picture and an old baseball lay.
Peter picked up the picture and smiled. It was of little Peter and his father, his father giving him a piggyback ride while both of them giggled wildly. It was such a happy scene compared to his now gloom-filled days at home.
Peter turned the picture over, his father's writing scribbled on the back. "June 19th, 1986." Peter read, chuckling to himself. "That was a good time."
As Peter continued looking at the picture, he noticed a beer in the back of the photo. It was clearly his mother's. Mr. Morgan never drank any alcohol, not since he lost his brother to a drunk driver.
He set the picture back down. He was angry that even then when they were having a family moment, his mother couldn't put the alcohol down.
Peter picked up the suit and admired it. The suit had belonged to his father, and now it was his.
ns 15.158.61.11da2
