Supernatural 1996: The Goatman

Prologue

God was his back killing him.

Sheriff Tim Rogers grind his teeth and did his best to keep both hands on the steering wheel while edging the police Humvee foreword. Officer Tweedledee was next to him, yapping on about his hometown again and about how much friendlier people were there than here.

He wanted nothing more than to pull over and stretch his aching back, not that Albert Road was that long mind. It was just outside SouthGate's limits with Maple tree branches peering over either lane, their crunchy leaves fluttering in the fall wind with a cold grey sunset overhead.

He pressed his foot on the gas and the machine hummed as the car sped foreword. Rodgers wondered why getting older meant your body turning to shit.

Officer Tweedledee was staring at him expectantly, must've asked him a question.

''Hmm?''

The man's name wasn't Tweedledee, his name was Aaron McFly, but everyone down at the station called him that in honor of his tall, gawky body and young sharp facial features.

Tweedledee sighed, ''I asked you what exactly Freeman's doing outside SouthGate.''

''E's a logger, works for the Dickson company,'' Rogers cleared his throat. ''He comes into town with the rest of the team to bring in the lumber or maybe gets his booze by the Red Flag but otherwise prefers his own company. Hell, that got him in trouble a few years back.''

Tweedledee craned his long neck to stare at the wilderness outside. ''What exactly would spook a guy living out here? ''He asked softly, almost absentmindedly. ''Maybe a black bear?''

''He didn't say,'' Rogers took a sharp turn into a clearing that led further into the woods.

''Probably wants help tracking a vole or something that took his canned supplies.''

Rogers parked the Humvee and turned off the ignition.

''Walking from here?''

''Yep,'' he replied and they both exited the vehicle and walked up a thin slice of road between the trees.

They walked in silence, their boots crunching on the dry leaves before Rogers could see the cabin ahead. He could make out an orange flame glinting through the darkness in front of the cabin. Where he heard a dog barking loudly.

As Rogers stepped closer, he realized that the fire was emanating from a rusted iron drum in front of the cabin. Freeman was sitting in a chair behind it, warming his hands.

He was dressed in a warm looking yellow and red jumper with a woolen cap on his head.

The crackling flame lit up his dark eyes and illuminated his black face.

''Little cold tonight huh Freeman?'' As they entered the firelight, an Icelandic Sheepdog near the fire started yapping away at them.

''Took you long enough, Sheriff'' he raised his voice over the barking. 'Quiet, Timber!''

''You named your dog Timber?'' Tweedledee asked, a hint of a smile in his voice.

''Yeah, so what,'' he eyed him irritably. ''What's your name, pencil?''

Rogers cackled, ''we call him Tweedledee.''

''Hush up Timber!'' Freeman startled his dog who let out a whine before quieting down. Freeman seemed to be a little on edge to the Sheriff.

''Anyways what's the problem pal? Why'd you call us to your godforsaken cabin?''

''And why couldn't you just tell us on the damn phone?'' Rogers frowned.