5. Ethan
Ethan
It was a farm like many others in Maine.
The dairy cattle were grazing on the hillside as I pulled up the long winding gravel driveway.
Jake had called me out to that small farm, cutting my conversation with the handsome stranger called Calder short.
But Jake sounded like he had something interesting this time.
Of course, I knew it was related to the animal attacks that I’d read about in the paper.
He’d told me as much. In fact, it was the same farm mentioned in the article I’d slipped into the box of things I swore I’d never look at again.
I’d already called my therapist and explained to her what was going on.
After a long conversation filled with anxiety, she told me I wasn’t slipping back into old habits, but that I should use this as an opportunity to find a logical explanation for the attacks instead of a supernatural one.
Besides, what were the chances the monster would attack a cow?
The monster I knew liked to kill people, not cattle.
More importantly, I needed this job. My first month of rent was due soon and I still had expenses from the move to pay for. And with crime at an all time low, this was all we had to report about. Deadlines were coming up and I needed an article. We both did. So really, there was no other choice.
“Hey Ethan,” Jake called the moment I stepped out of my car. He was wearing a skin tight polo that made it difficult to look at anything but his face. “Find the place okay?”
“Yeah,” I nodded, grabbing my recorder from the passenger seat. I did everything I could to hide the blush burning on my cheeks. “Still getting used to these winding roads, but I only had to turn around once.”
Jake chuckled, his broad shoulders shifting beneath that too-tight shirt. "Maine roads take some getting used to. Nothing like the grid system in the city, huh?"
I nodded, trying to focus on the job rather than how uncomfortable I felt around Jake. There was something about him that always put me on edge, though I couldn't place why. He'd been nothing but helpful since I'd started at the Portland Gazette.
"So, these attacks," I began. "You mentioned there was something unusual about them?"
Jake's expression darkened. "Follow me. The farmer, Marcus Greer, found another one this morning."
That was the same name from the article. My interest was piqued. We trudged up a small incline, past a weathered red barn. The smell hit me first—that coppery tang of blood mixed with the earthy scent of cattle. My stomach clenched as memories threatened to surface.
"It's just over this ridge," Jake said, glancing back at me. "You okay? You look pale."
"I'm fine," I lied, gripping my recorder tighter. "Just want to see what we're dealing with."
As we crested the hill, I saw it. A large Holstein, once black and white, now torn apart, its entrails spilled across the lush green grass. Blood soaked the ground around it, turning the earth a sickening rust color. But what caught my attention wasn't the gore—it was the precision of the wounds.
"Notice anything?" Jake asked, standing uncomfortably close behind me.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to look closer. "The cuts... they're clean. Too clean for a normal animal attack."
Jake nodded, seemingly pleased with my observation. "Exactly. Whatever did this wasn't just hungry. It was... deliberate."
A chill ran down my spine. The last time I'd seen wounds like this was fourteen years ago, in photos I wasn't supposed to see—photos of my father's body after we were attacked in the woods.
"The farmer said he heard howling last night," Jake continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Said it sounded bigger than any wolf he'd ever heard."
My mouth went dry. "Wolves haven't been in Maine for decades."
"That's what I said." Jake's brown eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made me step back. "But Marcus says otherwise.” He patted me on the shoulder, pointing toward the barn. “He’s waiting for us.”
I followed Jake toward the barn, my mind racing. The clean cuts, the howling, the deliberate nature of the attack—it was all too familiar. But I couldn't go down that rabbit hole again. Not after what happened at my last job and my life.
"Ethan," Jake called, pulling me from my thoughts. "You coming?"
"Yeah, sorry," I muttered, quickening my pace.
The barn's interior was cool and dim after the bright Maine sunshine.
Dust motes danced in the slanted beams of light filtering through the weathered boards.
Marcus Greer sat on an overturned milk crate, his weathered hands clasped between his knees, head bowed.
He looked up as we approached, his face etched with worry lines.
"Mr. Greer," Jake said, his voice suddenly gentle. "This is Ethan Murphy from the Portland Gazette. My partner on the crime column. Now that he’s here, we'd like to ask you a few questions about what happened."
Marcus nodded, his gray eyes studying me. "You're the new fella they hired, right?”
"Yes, sir," I said, clicking on my recorder. "Mind if I record our conversation?"
He waved a hand dismissively. “Might as well. Nobody else is gonna listen to me.”
I cocked my head to the side. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean every fuckin’ cop in this county thinks I’m a fool.
And I ain’t no fool. I've lived in these parts my whole life," Marcus continued, leaning forward, his voice dropping.
"My daddy before me, and his daddy before him.
We know what's natural and what ain't. And that—" he jabbed a finger toward the hillside where the mangled Holstein lay, "—that ain't natural. "
I nodded, trying to maintain my professional demeanor while my heart hammered against my ribs. The recorder felt heavy in my hand.
"Can you tell me exactly what you heard or saw last night?" I asked.
Marcus ran a calloused hand through his thinning gray hair. "Started 'round midnight. Was sleeping when my dogs went crazy. Not just barking—they were howling, whimpering. Scared like I ain't never seen 'em before."
Jake leaned against a wooden post, arms crossed over his chest, watching me work. His expression was unreadable, but something in his eyes made me shiver.
"I grabbed my shotgun and went to the porch," Marcus continued. "That's when I heard it. Wasn't no coyote, wasn't no regular wolf neither. This was... bigger. Deeper." He paused, seemingly disturbed by his own words. “It sounded like…”
Marcus's hands trembled slightly as he mimicked the sound, a guttural howl that echoed through the barn. I tried to hide my reaction, but my finger slipped on the recorder, nearly dropping it.
"Didn't see nothing then," Marcus continued. "But this morning..." He shook his head. "Third cow this month. Can't afford more losses like this."
I cleared my throat. "The wounds—they seemed very precise. Almost... surgical."
Marcus's eyes widened. "That's what I been telling the sheriff! Whatever's doing this ain't just killing for food. Look at how the hide's been... peeled back." His voice cracked. "Like it was picked apart for the most choice cuts. As far as I can tell, only the heart and the liver are missing."
Jake stepped forward. "You said this was the third cow? Were the others killed the same way?"
The farmer nodded grimly. "Same damn thing. Always the heart and the liver. The rest of it’s just left to rot." He looked between us. "You boys think I'm crazy, don't you?"
"No," I said quickly, perhaps too quickly. His story made my heart race. "We don't think that at all."
Jake gave me a curious look before turning back to Marcus.
"We’re here to report, Mr. Greer, not judge you.
The police might not see fit to investigate your claims, but we’re going to report on it without bias.
That’s our job. As long as you’re telling us the truth, that’s what will end up in the paper. ”
"Truth's all I got," Marcus muttered, his weathered face creasing with worry. "Sheriff thinks it's just some wild dog, maybe a coyote pack. But I've seen what coyotes do to livestock. This ain't it."
I nodded, jotting down notes on my small pocket notebook even though the recorder was running.
It was a nervous habit that kept my hands busy while my mind raced.
The missing heart and liver—it was the same pattern.
The same as in those case files I'd obsessively studied after my father's death.
Files I wasn't supposed to have access to.
"You mentioned howling," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Could you describe it more specifically? Was it just one creature or multiple?"
Marcus's eyes narrowed, as if he was relieved someone was finally taking him seriously. "One voice. One big voice. Not like a pack. And it..." He hesitated, glancing between Jake and me. "This'll sound crazy, but it almost sounded... deliberate. Like it wanted me to hear it."
A chill ran down my spine. I knew that sound. I was doing my damnedest not to let my mind run away with the details, but it was eerily similar. Everything about this cattle attack reminded me of my father and all those memories I’d been attempting to suppress for nearly a decade.
"Like it was sending a message," I murmured before I could stop myself.
Marcus's eyes widened. "Exactly like that! Like it was... I don't know... announcing itself." He leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. "You believe me, don't you, son?"
I felt Jake's eyes on me, studying my reaction. I cleared my throat, trying to maintain professional distance.
"I believe something unusual is happening here, Mr. Greer. And we're going to find out what it is."
Jake stepped in smoothly. "Can we see where you heard the howling from? Your porch, was it?"
Marcus nodded and led us out of the barn.
The sunlight momentarily blinded me as we emerged, and I blinked rapidly, adjusting to the brightness.
The farmhouse was modest—white clapboard with peeling paint, a wraparound porch that had seen better days.
The kind of place that had been in a family for generations.
As we crossed the yard, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I checked it discreetly. A text from Jake.
Keep it professional.
I frowned at Jake's text, quickly pocketing my phone as we reached the porch. What was that supposed to mean? I'd been nothing but professional since we arrived.
"Right here," Marcus said, gesturing to the weathered porch railing. "I was standing right here when I heard it. The dogs were in their pen over yonder, practically climbing the fence to get away from whatever was out there."
I glanced toward the dog pen near the side of the house. Two large farm dogs—a German Shepherd mix and what looked like a Catahoula—paced nervously behind the chain-link, their eyes constantly scanning the tree line.
"They still seem agitated," I observed. “Like something’s coming back for them…”
Marcus nodded grimly. "Haven't settled since last night. Animals know, you see. They sense things we can't."
Jake leaned against the porch column, his muscular frame casting a long shadow across the worn boards. "And you're certain you didn't see anything? No movement in the trees? No eyes reflecting light?"
"Pitch black," Marcus replied. "But I felt it watching. Felt it like..." He tapped his chest. "Like a weight right here."
Jake nodded, reaching into his pocket and producing a business card. “Here’s my number Mr. Greer. Give us a call if you see or hear this creature again. I mean it. Anytime. I’ll be here as fast as I can.”
“Thank you, son,” the farmer nodded. “It’s good to know someone’s on my side in all this mess.”
“We’ll be in touch,” Jake nodded, grabbing me as he stepped off the porch. “Thank you for your time.”
As soon as we were out of earshot, Jake turned to me. “You and I need to have a little chat,” he said, his expression one of excitement and not censure like I’d expected. “There’s more going on here than meets the eye.”
My heart thumped wildly in my chest. Jake knew something.
For the first time in ten years, I didn’t feel alone.