Ch. 10: The Wild Man of Winsted

Back to Arheled

             The   house   stood   in   the   circle   of   pines,   endlessly   watching   the   Gates   of   the   North. A   rude   cabin   it   seemed   to   the   eyes   of   any   who   saw   it,   mossy   with   years,   built   of   grey   planks   and   grey   beams   of   axe-hewn   wood,   a   porch   running   half   around   it,   the   roof   shingled   in   wood,   and   the   shingles   were   deep   in   moss. From   the   chimney   of   ancient   bricks   a   faint   smoke   ever   rose,   smelling   of   strange   and   sweet   woods. The   man   who   sat   outside   it   might   have   been   carved   out   of   wood   himself,   for   all   he   moved,   but   his   eyes   gleamed   and   flickered   with   a   blue   light,   as   though   his   thought   roamed   far   and   wide,   to   the   very   ends   of   the   World   and   back   again,   while   the   spiders   spun   webs   across   his   arms   and   moss   grew   on   his   leather   coat.

             The   earth   in   front   of   him   swelled   and   bulged   upward,   and   there   stepped   out   of   it   a   large   man,   rough   and   uncouth,   a   ragged   mantle   flowing   about   him   from   which   crumbs   of   earth   still   fell.

             “I   know   why   you   have   come,   Wild   Man.”   said   the   being   that   bore   the   name   of   Arheled. “I   saw   them   also.”

             “They   have   walked   in   broad   daylight   down   the   main   street   of   Winsted!”   fumed   the   man   of   earth.

             “The   dragons   have   been   created,   then.”   said   Arheled. “But   they   were   not   powerful   enough   to   attack   the   Five   with   any   hope   of   success. Bell   repulsed   them.”

             “The   Hill   was   fighting   them,   too.”   said   Wild. “He   had   aid. A   power   he   used   that   comes   not   from   either   of   us.”

             “Nor   from   the   Sisters,   I   deem.”   the   other   answered. “Yet   it   is   not   hostile,   and   aid   is   aid,   and   that   which   is   not   against   us,   is   with   us.”

             “We   have   been   challenged,   my   lord!”   hissed   Wild. “He   sends   his   children   to   eat   police   in   broad   day,   while   we   must   inch   along   in   disguise   and   use   no   power,   for   after   all   the   little   dirlas   might   freak   out!” Arheled   rose   slowly   from   his   seat. Stiff   bones   creaked   like   the   branches   of   trees. “You   are   right,   my   vassal.”   he   said. His   face   frowned,   hardening   like   stone. “The   dragons   are   being   stored   in   secret   places   to   be   trained   by   their   Father. It   is   time   to   show   him   he   is   not   yet   supreme!”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “What   do   you   mean,   my   lord?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             Arheled   turned   his   gaze   to   him. “I   will   unleash   the   Wild   Man of   Winsted   upon   them.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             A   fiendish   grin   spread   over   the   uncouth   features   of   the   Wild   Man. “Yes.”   he   hissed. “Yes. Yes. Yes!”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Go   and   walk   forth.”   said   Arheled.

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<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             The   late-summer   night   was   sticky   and   humid   and   very   warm. It   was   perfect   for   swimming. Especially   after   that   nightmare   at   the   carnival. Cassie   only   wanted   to get   as   drunk   or   as   high   as   she   could   get   away   with,   and   forget   about   it. Forget   about   everything. She   would   have   to   keep   an   eye   on   Abby,   though;   even   though they   were   twins,   Cassie   was   older,   and   felt   an   older   sister’s   responsibility   toward   her.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             The   guys   didn’t   care,   anyway,   how   drunk   Mira   got   them;   Mira   was   crazy   anyway,   even   without   drink. Cassie   lazily   went   along   with   them,   and   when   they   suggested   a   swim   at   Resha   Beach,   said   “Sure,”   even   though   none   of   them   had   swim   things. She   didn’t   care. Even   in   her   boyfriend’s   embrace   she   didn’t   care,   she   drifted,   too   apathetic   to   bother   to   refuse.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “I   hate   my   body.”   she   muttered. Guys   sometimes   talked   trash   about   it. She   was   pretty   in   a   buxom,   curvy   way;   “voluptuous”   an   older   generation   would   have   called   t,   but   she   called   it   fat. But   here   they   were   at   Resha,   in   the   wide   parking   lot   in   the   angle   of   East   Lake   and   Hurlbut,   and   Brandan   was   passing   out   the   beer,   and   pretty   soon   she   forgot   all   her   dreariness,   and   laughed   and   could   feel   like   she   was   happy   again.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             The   beach   proper   was   screened   from   the   road   by   the   high   earth   berm,   grass-grown,   that   had   been   piled   after   the   ’55   Flood   to   keep   in   the   lake;   for   otherwise   there   was   only   a   slight rise   between   the   cove   and   the   valley   leading   down   to   Pratt   St. In   the   night   it   was   difficult   to   see,   for   trees   grew   on   the   left   and   ran   down   into   a   swampy   clump   of willows,   and   on   the   right   reeds   grew   between   the   beach   and   the   nearest   house. Though   the   lake   homes   had   an   unimpeded   view of   the   beach,   in   darkness   one   only   sees   shapes;   despite   being   shallow   and   mud-bottomed,   it   felt   more   private. More   wild. The   boys   were   up   in   the   lifeguard   chair. Mira was   complaining   in   a   whine   that   she   wanted   to   get   naked   and   “nobody   will   get   naked   with   me,”   and   pretty   soon   she   and   Ally   were   throwing   their   clothes   aside,   and   Mira   was   laughing   in   the   water   with   nothing   on. It   was   crazy   and   weird,   and   Cassie   didn’t   care   that   the   boys   were   looking   right   at   her   with   nothing   between   her   and   them. It   didn’t   matter.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             There   was   a   weird   bubbling   noise   farther   out   in   the   lake,   where   the   round   white   buoys   and   the   farther long   stick-like   buoys   were. “The   b—bs   and   the   d—s.”   everyone   called   them. Cassie   glanced   out   that   way   but   only   saw   a   round   weedy   mass   like   a   rock. No   moving   people’s   heads.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Whee! Come   in   the   water,   it   feels   so   good!”   Mira   was   giggling. Cassie   laughed,   feeling   it   come   out   too   loud   and   hard,   but   she   couldn’t   help   it,   she   was   just   high. The   bubbling   sounded   again,   and   there   was   a   loud   splash   as   of   someone   swimming.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “I   thought   we   were   the   only   ones   here.”   slurred   Ally. She   was   sitting   down   in   the   water   so   only   her   head   showed,   and   Cassie   giggled   as   she   kicked   water   on   her. Then   Mira   screamed,   and   behind   her   from   the   lifeguard   chair   she   could   hear   the   startled   shouts   of   the   guys.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             Something   was   rising   out   of   the   lake. Something   manlike,   for   immense   arms   swung   from   it,   but   either   it   was   covered   with   seaweed   or   with   long   hair   streaming   water. It   was   striding   inland,   and   eyes   gleamed   as   they   caught   the   dim   orange   streetlamps   out   by   the   intersection,   and   it   was   naked,   but   body   hair   hung   gross   and   thick   about   it   and   a   long   beard   was   plastered   over   the   chest. The   girls   were   unable   to   move   as   the   monster   waded   past   them,   the   sand   shuddering   with   its’   weight. It   turned   and   surveyed   the   naked   girls,   and   a   long   luminous   tongue   slowly   emerged   and   travelled   around   its’   great   bearded   lips. Then   it   kicked   over   the   lifeguard   chair,   sending   the   boys   sprawling,   and   strode   over   the   berm. There   was   a   crunch   of   metal   and   glass   as   it   stepped   on   the   cars. On   it   strode,   down   Hurlbut,   cracking   the pavement   into   mighty   pits. Able   to   move   at   last,   the   girls   splashed   ashore,   pulled   on   their   clothes   and   milled   around   their   cars,   unable   to   figure   out   what   to   do.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             Cassie   was   conscious   primarily   of   two   things—great   fear,   and   shame. She   felt   sick,   like   she’d   eaten   too   much   rich   food. This   was   supposed   to   be   fun,   and   everything   felt   rotten! The   mood   was   ruined. She   swigged   down   another   beer   as   the   boys   began   calling   friends. The   hell   with   it.

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<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             Main   Street   on   summer   nights   had   an   eerie,   palpable   air   about   it,   with   the   glowing   neon   shop-signs   and   the lighted   windows,   the   orange   streetlights   and   dark   sky   above;   a   night   atmosphere,   like   an   entity   of   its’   own. Bob   the   Jehovah’s   Witness   felt   it,   as   he   did   every   night,   when   he   issued   forth   to   spread   tracts   and   tell   everyone   that   the   Watchtower   was   the   only   hope   of   salvation. He   was   a   corpulent   but   earnest   old   man,   wearing   a   straw   hat   with   a   small   brim   and   often   a   long   overcoat,   such   as   when   rain   threatened. He   had   close-cut   hair   and   a   folded,   simplistic   sort   of   face. People   passed   him   like   shadows,   like   dim   phantoms   laughing   madly   and   drunkenly   in   the   underlight. No   one   stopped,   or   disengaged   themselves   as   quickly   as   possible   when   he   tried   talking to   them.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             He   was   in   one   of   the   bars   now,   finishing   an   argument   with   a   pale   drug-zombied-looking   young   man,   who   seemed   incapable   of   realizing   that   Hell   is   an   act   of   Divine   cruelty   and   therefore   doesn’t   exist. Neither   dies   the   afterlife. Only   the   hope   of   being   resurrected   to   the   earthly   paradise   at   the   end   of   the   world;   the   bad   would   simply   no longer   exist. He   was   chary   of   mentioning   this,   however,   since   Ronnie   Wendy—nice   young   fellow,   very   strong   mind,   very   intelligent—had   burst   out   laughing   and   started   saying,   “Don’t   worry   about   Hell;   we’re   all   gonna   go   poof!”   It   was   a   little   hard   to   explain.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             A   great   shape   passed   up   the   street. Shouts   were   rising   from   outside. Then   the   restaurant   door   opened   and   this   guy   walked   into   the   bar.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             So   wild   and weird   a   man   had   not   been   seen   in   Winsted   for   one   hundred   years   and   ten. Black   hair   billowed   around   him,   over   the   great   ragged   mantle   he   wore. Underneath   he   was   naked,   but   this   was   hard   to   see,   so   thick   and   gross   was   his   body   hair. Eyes   like   saturnine   coals   flashed   from   above   what   must   have   been   his   beard. The   barmaid   dropped   a   glass,   and   the   shattering   of   it   upon   the   floor   was   the   only   sound   in   that   bar.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Oh   come,   none   of   you   have   heard   of   me?”   mocked   the   creature. It’s   voice   was   rough,   deep   as   a   waterfall,   and   awful   to   hear. “You   ignorant   little   grasshoppers,   who   no   longer   know   the names   of   the   hills   that   you   look   upon   each   morning,   who   have   forgotten   the   name   of   the   Wild   Man   of   Winsted!”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             When   he   left,   they   never   saw;   it   was   as   if   he   had   vanished. They   were   simply   too   stunned   to   notice.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             All   down   Main   Street,   cars   swerved   and   crashed;   people   walking   up   the   sidewalk,   the   queer   empty   laughter   of   the   folks   of   Winsted   echoing   about   them,   froze   in   their   tracks,   as   a   shape   out   of   the   weirdest   movies   stalked   down   the   median,   long   hair   flowing   out   around   him,   cloak   lifting,   huger   than   any   man.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             With   a   howling   of   sirens   a   police   car   did   a   U-turn   and   skidded   to   a   halt   across   the   Wild   Man’s   path. The   hellish   searchlight   each   car   now   bore,   like   a   huge   blue-white   eye   brighter   than   any   Moon,   glared   full   in   the   eyes   of   the   monster. Policemen   piled   out,   and   police   cars   began   collecting   like   wasps   out   of   nowhere,   officers   piling   from   cars   and   crouching   behind   them,   guns   held   in   both   hands   at   arms’   length.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Holy   cal-loopasticks! What   is   that   thing?”   “We’d   better   shoot   it! A   creature   like   that   could   tear   us   apart!”   the   police   could   be   heard   exclaiming. A   bullhorn   was   shouting,   in   the   patient   irritable   tone   police   always   seem   to   use   through   them,   as   if   talking   to   children,   “Get   down   on   the   ground! Put   your   hands   on   your   head!   Or   we   will   open   fire!”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             The   Wild   Man   of   Winsted   gave   a   huge   and   hideous   grin. “Go   ahead.”   he   sneered.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             As   bullets   bounded   off   him   like   hailstones,   he   picked   up   a   police   car   with   one   hand,   still   grinning. “I   always   did   like   playing   with   toys!”   he   jeered. As   if   it   was   made   of   Styrofoam   he   tossed   it   in   the   air,   and   then   he was   juggling   cruisers   like   a   circus   preformer,   while   the   police   lowered   empty   weapons   and   stared   in   horrified   fascination.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Sing   hi,   sing   hey,   let   the   good   cheer   resound,   when   the   Wild   Man’s   in   tooooowwwwnnn!”   he   sang. Then   dropping   the   cruisers   one   upon   another   in   a   crash   and   shattering   of   glass   and   metal,   he   stalked   off.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             Winsted   that   night   was   a   haunted   place. Down   every   street,   through   every   yard,   the   Wild   Man   of   Winsted   walked. Not   a   single   neighborhood   but   saw   the   hairy   cloaked   shape,   fell   eyes   gleaming,   weird   and   mocking   laughter   booming   from   the   glowing   mouth,   pacing   black   against   the   streetlights,   ignoring   the   news   helicopters   that   soon   were   vying   with   police   choppers   above   the   town   as   much   as   he   ignored   the   police   cars   that   from   time   to   time   tried   to   stop   him. Several   times   Cornello   teleported   by   his   demonic   power   to   where   the   Wild   Man   was   last   seen   by   his   dragon’s   eyes,   but   each   time   he   appeared   in   an   empty   street. All   that   night   Cornello   hunted,   and   all   that   night   the   Wild   Man   taunted   him   by eluding   him   constantly,   transferring   his   essence   faster   than   thought   itself   could   leap:   or   so   Cornello   reasoned,   but   maybe   Forest   was   not   the   only   one   capable   of   concealing   himself   even   from   a   dragon’s   gaze. As   dawn   came   at   last   and   the   terrified   city   began   to   venture   out   and   go   to work,   no   further   apparitions   of   the   Wild   Man   of   Winsted   manifested. Cornello   cast   his   dark   gaze   about,   through   wall   and   hill   alike,   but   his   adversary   made   no   sign. Timidly   the   folk   of   Winsted   came   out,   looking   every   which   way;   but   all   was   normal   on   the   streets   of   Winsted.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             That   morning   towards   dawn,   as the   half-moon   glowered   cold   from   her   perch   and   Jupiter   shone   hard   and   white   some   ways   to   her   right,   the   Herald   strode   over   the   east   horizon   for   the   first   time   since   winter. All   summer   he   had   risen   with   the   day,   concealed   by   the   hard   rays   of   jealous   Apollo,   but   now   he   was   visible   in   his   right   domain,   arrow   aiming   across   the   arch   of   heaven,   feet buried   in   the   river   of   silver.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             The   last   person   to   see   the   Wild   Man   was   Ronnie   Wendy,   knee   deep   in   plastic   cups   and   trash   in   the   carnival   dumpster,   gathering   the   last   cans   from   the   wreck   of   the   carnival. The   twisted   burnt   rides   were   piled   in   the   field,   waiting   for   the   scrapyard. The   food   tent   was   intact   but   packed   away. All   the   debris   had   been   thrown   in   the   dumpster,   and   the   yellow   police   tape   only   surrounded   the   scrapped   rides.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             He   heard   a   cry   and   looked   out,   and   saw   upon   the   height   of   the   Sand   Bank   Cemetary   a   huge   and   hairy   shape,   arms   lifted   to   the   stars,   crying   aloud   in   a   strange   and   mighty   tongue,   and   there   was   joy   in   his   voice.'' ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Menelmakar! ''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">”   cried   the   Wild   Man. ''“Aever,   aeva! Vo   haltha   kunthhonon!''”

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<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             There   was   considerable   mirth   on   Wintergreen   Island   when   the   paper   was   taken   in. Brooke   had   come   over   to   talk   about   the   great   events   in   secrecy,   and   she   and   Bell   were   reading   the   front   page   and   howling   with   laughter   until   Forest   started   clearing   his   throat.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “OK,   you   guys   have   got   to   listen   to   this.”   chortled   Bell. “''Last evening   the   Fireman’s   Carnival   was   interrupted   by   another   of   the   inexplicable   things   that   have   been   happening   in   Winsted   this   summer. What   exactly   took   place   is   difficult   to   determine   as   eyewitnesses   seem   to   become   hysterical   on   the   subject   when   interviewed   and   make   bizarre   statements,   but   evidently   one   of   the   carnival   displays   worked   a   little   too   well. There   was   a   mass   stampede   from   the   scene. Dozens   are   presumed   dead,   and   the   carnival   and   much   of   the   playscape   was   burned   nearly   to   the   ground. Bystanders   claim   that   the   place   was   invaded   by,   of   all   things,   dragons. Police   are   unable   to   form   a   coherent   picture   of   events.   Isn’t   that   just   a   riot''?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “It’s   a   good   thing   Ronnie   called   us   last   night.”   said   Forest.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Just   listen. It   gets   better.''   Winsted   seems   to   be   out   for   fame   in   the   UFO   region   this   summer,   or   maybe   shooting   for   a   slot   in   the   X-Files. All   year   the   northwestern   Connecticut   city   has   been   plagued   with   bizarre   events. In   mid-June   a   mysterious   beacon   of   greeny-white   appeared   on   one   of   the   hills   north   of   the   city   but   no   trace   was   discovered   of   what   caused   it. In   July   the   local   recreation   center,   Highland   Lake,   experienced   a   peculiar flood   and   tsunami,   destroying   many   of   its’   cottages. The   cause   of   this   has   yet   to   be   determined. That   same   day   a   flood   control   berm   on   the   Mad   River   west   of   the   town,   apparently   disappeared,   all   two   hundred   feet   of   it   without   a   trace,   inundating   low-lying   businesses   downstream. Some   weeks   later   the   opposite   end   of   Highland   Lake   experienced   further   upheaval,   causing   ten-foot   waves   to   pound   the   shores. Now   apparently   dragons   are   regarding   its’   carnival   as   a   snack   bar.” ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Does   it   say   anything   about   last   night?”   said   Forest.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Yep,   in   a   big   insert   with   huge   headlines. I   think   the   paper   must   have   been   printed   by   then.”   said   Bell.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Well,   I   had   Julian   waking   me   up   at   midnight   babbling   incoherently   about   a   huge   creature   that   walked   up   Main   St,   got   shot   at   without   effect,   and   started   juggling   cop   cars.”   giggled   Brooke. “I   found   all   sorts   of   videos   on   YouTube   about   it. Wild   must   have   spent   all   night   terrorizing   the   town. Here,   look. I’ll   show   you. Can   I   use   your   computer,   Mrs.   Lake?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “It’s   Chrissy,   sweetie!”   giggled   Forest’s   mom. “Go   ahead,   it’s   all   turned   on.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             Brooke   soon   found   the   videos. A   few   were   wobbley   and   fuzzy. The   clearest   one   was   of   the   monster   tossing   cruisers   around   like   foam   blocks,   which   made   everyone   laugh. The   fuzzy   ones   only   showed   vague   huge   figures   crossing   open   areas.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “The   camera   was   so   scared   it   couldn’t   shoot   straight!”   quipped   Forest.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “What   are   you   quoting   this   time?”   said   Brooke.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">             “Um,   the   last   time   somebody   tried   photographing   the   Wild   Man,   the   camera   showed   a   mass   of   hair   on   the   head   but   none   on   his   body,   and   the   photographer   claimed   his   camera   got   spooked.”   said   Bell.

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