The Were's of Burnt Church

By Mickey Macmurphy

Ch 1

Coming up here was a great idea; I've only been here for going on six days and I've already finished most of a chapter in my book. It's been a little hard getting used to the sudden silence everywhere, after slowly drowning in the noise of the city for so many years, but it has been nice. The best part is that I'm far away from all the distractions and the temptations of the city. Especially my kryptonite.

Anyways, this afternoon, as a break from all my hard work, tongue-in-cheek of course, I'm out exploring my new(ish) surroundings. I haven't been up here for decades I think, not since I was a kid. Things have sure changed a lot since then, the town is abandoned now, quiet and empty. I've been hired to be the caretaker, while the corporation that bought it from the town council decides how to proceed with their planned luxury hunting and outfitting lodge and ghost town adventure, after the economy took its unexpected downturn last year.

I turned to survey my domain. It was the former town motel, now partially converted to be used as a luxury living facilities for the rich hunters that so far haven't materialized. It would be my home until spring, whenever the ground was dry and hard enough to support the heavy construction machinery the owners planned on bringing up to continue the renovations. Beside it was the town's only grocery store, more of a minimart/convenience store really, with an old and well worn set of gas pumps out front.

The isolated northern town of Burnt Church, built on the shores of Young Witch Lake, might be no more, but after so many years away, living in various large cities across Canada, it was good to be home. Plus, I never minded solitude, and, as the last few days had shown, it could possibly be very productive for me, after a longer than usual period of block. Meanwhile, I had decided to amble down towards the lake, and followed Center Street's cracked and broken pavement, with its dry, half frozen weeds poking up here and there through the many small potholes.

The lake itself still had a thin layer of ice on it, although much of the early snowfall had already melted. I could see my own breath, it was chilly this morning, and it boded for an early and cold winter. That was probably the biggest reason I originally left, I mused, as I strolled along the path beside Lakeside Drive as it meandered alongside the lake and towards the swamp that formed the western boundary of the lake. The cold here was legendary. I liked to terrify people from the warm suburbs of Vancouver where I had lived for a time with tales of my eyeballs freezing solid from the cold, which weren't far from the truth.

I had been following them for a few dozen feet without even realizing, before I suddenly stopped and stared at them and then looked furtively around, cursing that I hadn't brought the shotgun that hung over the hearth in the former motel office. Those were wolf tracks, I was certain. Because there were no dogs up here in the literal middle of nowhere, I was pretty certain. Two sets of tracks, walking side by side through what was left of the refrozen snow.

They trailed along the path, before breaking off to disappear down by the rocky beachfront. No expert tracker by any means, I did know a little, what little I remembered of what my grandpa had tried to teach me all those years ago. And from the way the hairs on the back of my neck stood up, I felt very under-armed, exposed and vulnerable. Because, as my grandpa used to like to say, for every wolf track you see, there's usually several you don't.

So I decided to beat a hasty retreat back to the lodge, as it was already past mid-afternoon and it would be getting dark in an hour or so tops. I was peering at the ground, straining my eyes searching for any further tracks, or worse yet, bear tracks this late in the season, and cursing my stupidity in wandering around unarmed, by myself. The hairs on my neck went up again and I suddenly had the unmistakable sensation of being watched.