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For as long as I could remember, I had always been resentful of my upbringing. Being the son of a hunting man, a denied afternoon of playing with my schoolmates in favor of learning the many different types of animal tracks and other tedious dirt-marks was routine for me. In the end I turned out grateful though, for it is my most firmly held belief that these lessons, branded onto my cerebellum in the way you might brand livestock, are what had allowed me to survive the wicked ordeal of that dark New England winter of most awful repute. If only by the thinnest cross-section of a razors edge.

  It was the winter of 1821. My family had just ventured from their Massachusetts cottage for the promise of 50 acres of tillable land (my father was interested more in the stories of plentiful game in the Michigan hills, as opposed to farming), produced by the grant of a governor which I do not remember. We set out with a few other families for the purpose of establishing a settlement, both for protection and I suppose a way to stave off the loneliness inherent to the process of crafting and carving civilization from the clay-like amorphous substance that is the unknown frontier. When we arrived in that land, a most northern area of the Michigan territories, I had been a boy of 15.  Along with the Brookes', the Hatfords, the Engleharts and a few other families of which I was less acquainted with, we had a modest  population of 75 folk. We arrived in early spring, and were very eager to get to work planting. I had been made to assist the other families with their farming, as hunting season had not yet struck and my father had little need of my assistance. The soil was very good indeed, for what normally should have been the backbreaking work of hoeing and tilling had instead turned out to be a remarkably ease-filled activity, as the soil was much more pliable from what I had been expecting. I did not bring this up, however, as I considered myself too new to the act of farming to know much about how soft a particular soil should be. Had I not kept my mouth shut, perhaps these strange phenomenon then so disparate in my mind would have been combined in the more sophisticated heads of those elder to me, and lead to a revelation of the terrible shadow that would soon be on our horizon.

  A month or two had passed by then, and the initial rush of preparing and settling our new homes began to slow.  Now having at least a minimal amount of time for leisure, I was allowed to view my new surroundings with more astute observations.  Our town center comprised of a general goods store, a well (auxiliary, as most families had already dug their own), and a Methodist church, which served as a general meeting place. I describe these mundane things to you first, likely because I dread to discuss the general geography of the area itself. A vast, hilly and forested area surrounded our town. Although I was no stranger to the wholesome woods and creeks of my New England homeland, I did not like these new shadowed groves. Perhaps it was a simple trick of the eye, but when I gazed from our clearing into the deep wilderness beyond, I become washed over with a sense of unease. The hills helped to obscure a gazing far into the horizon, as if shielding my eyes from the secrets that they held. I was reminded of tales told to me in my youth from my Celtic grandmother and grandfather. Tales of ancient forest clearings shrouded in night, where specific rituals may be performed at specific hours, to summon specific demons from specific reaches of hell.