As a young boy growing up in the city, I'd always heard these rather bizarre tales told to me in an attempt to both captivate and frighten me; gators in the sewers, mutant rats in the back alley, though, perhaps my favorite was of the Frankenstein-like monster who supposedly lived in the abandoned warehouse down the road from where the hitchhiking ghost was said to be waiting for you.

     None of these (save for, possibly, the hitchhiking ghost) had ever proved to be true; believe me, I've looked. I was about twelve when I'd come to this realization. It nearly broke my heart; here I'd spent the majority of my life up to that point believing that these fantastically terrifying creatures were real and ready to kill us all, and it simply wasn't true.

     Bit of an odd thing to be upset about, but you know how it is when you're a child and you discover something you love so much is fake. As I moped around the house the night all of this occurred to me, my mother inquired as to what was wrong.

     "None of its real," I said, my arms crossed in front of me as I sat on the couch. "All of the legends were fake."

     The next words my mother spoke were, ultimately, what pushed me to become a writer. She'd said, "The creatures may be fake, but the legends are definitely real. They'd fascinated a hundred kids before you, and they'll fascinate a hundred more after."

     Something then clicked in my mind, for at that point I knew that I wanted to write the kinds of stories that people would be speaking of for years.      My early works were juvenile, to say the least, but then again, so was I.

     It wasn't until my junior year of college that I got my first story published. It was a short story called "Sleepwalker", and it was just barely good enough to catch the attention of an agent, who then put me in touch with publishers. I'm sure by now most of you have read my novels, "No Reception", "The Creature at Camp Karloff", and "When Gregory Wrote Home" among others.

     I bring up this brief history of my career to drive home this single point: every story I have written up until now has been, much like the legends I listened to as a child, fictitious. All of them have been birthed from the depths of my mind and crafted together in a manner which, I believed, would make them most fascinating and often terrifying to my readers.

     The story which I now submit to the reader is completely true. Something like this I could not have made up if I tried.

​

     As many of you know, I still reside in Chicago, where I grew up. It's my home; the sounds of the busy streets sing me to sleep each night, and the early morning traffic wakes me up by dawn.

     Great as that experience is, it does little to stir my mind towards thoughts of nature and the forest; unfortunate, as I had just been blessed with the idea for a story about a family who becomes trapped in a cabin when the wild life begins to hunt them. I know, it sounds like a horrible idea when it's presented in a brief synopsis, but in my head it was terrifying.

     At some point, perhaps, I'll put what I did finish of my manuscript on my web site. After the encounter I have had, I have little to no desire to finish that particular story.

     I digress. In order to set my mind more in the spirits of my story, I had blocked out a solid month from my schedule, and made arrangements to stay in the cabin my mother had acquired from her first divorce. She'd always tried to sell the place, but, for whatever reason, no one ever seemed interested in buying it. Naturally, at that point in time, I was glad for it, but at the early part of my stay, I would learn quite quickly why no one would take the place.

​

     A seven hour drive to the Black Mountains of South Dakota isn't too bad when you have a companion with you (especially if they are old enough to drive and can therefore take a portion of the trip off your shoulders). A seven hour drive to the Black Mountains of South Dakota by yourself is Hell, regardless of how many alternate celebrity voices you have for your GPS.

     Naturally, I was relieved when I finally heard, "In point four miles, you have reached your destination." Never in fourteen years of driving has that monotone voice sounded so good.

     I laid my eyes upon the cabin as my car struggled to ascend the slight hill which it sat upon. It was a nice little place; a brick and log exterior with forest green shutters and black shingles on the roof. It appeared the place had a second story; a loft I would later find out.

     I unloaded my luggage from the back seat, carrying a duffle bag over one shoulder, and a suitcase under the opposing arm. Inside the front door I set them, glancing around the interior. As previously noted, the cabin did have a loft at the top of a fine staircase made from numerous oak logs.      The kitchen, which was one of my favorite parts about the place, sported a vintage range and refrigerator, both of which were horribly rusted and did little to draw my attention away from the dusty, holey, cob-webbed cabinets.

     I'd smiled at myself, feeling truly inspired by how horrid the place looked. Maybe it was a good thing no one ever used this place.

     I'd turned around to retrieve the remainder of my bags from the car, when I was startled by a little boy who'd managed to sneak up behind me. I jumped, and then proceeded to roll my eyes as I swore under my breath.

     "Hello there," I'd said. "What's your name?"

     "Corey," he replied; his voice high, hoarse, and monotone.

     "You startled me pretty good there, Corey," I told him, dropping to one knee. "I'll give you props, not too many people can pull that off."

     "Why are you here?" he asked me. "You shouldn't stay here."

     I smiled to myself. That was something so typical for a creepy kid in a scary story to say. This place seemed to get better, though I'd been there no more than five minutes.

     "Oh? And why shouldn't I be here?" I asked the child. I probably sounded a bit more enthusiastic than I meant to, but I couldn't help it. Clearly, the vacancy of my cabin had spawned some sort of legend amongst the local children which, no doubt, would rival even those legends I'd grown up hearing on the streets back home.

     The child, Corey, looked down at his feet. He was embarrassed; I could tell, to tell this myth to the likes of me, an adult. I'd been there before as well; knowing some dark secret but worried my parents would brush it aside as make believe. I implored him to tell me, using the most concerned voice I could muster.

     Just then a voice called out Corey's name. He and I both looked to where the voice had come. Walking up the drive-way was a rather pretty young woman; she couldn't have been more than twenty-eight. Her face was worn, though she still tried to look as if she had the energy of her younger self. A glance at her hand told me she was married, which led me to assume that this boy was her son.

     "Corey," she called again, brushing her auburn hair out of her eyes. "What have I told you about coming up here by yourself?"

     "I just wanted to see," he replied, hanging his head. "I thought they'd come back for him."

     Corey hadn't known then, though I doubt he does now, but those two sentences made up for the entirety of the seven hour drive here. I stood, beaming down at the boy.

     "Get back home, it's almost dinner time," his mother instructed him. Corey kicked a rock, and slowly made his way back to his house. His mother sighed, turning to me. "I'm sorry; he and the other neighborhood kids are wrapped up in an old legend about your cabin."

     "I'd absolutely love to hear it sometime," I said, extending my arm. "Jonathan Becmane," I offered as she took my hand.

     "Nancy Ferris," she replied. "You just buy this place?"

     I replied with a 'no', then proceeded to describe my mother's acquisition of the place and my reasoning for being there now. I could tell she'd heard neither my name nor my work before, but when I write to such a genera whose audience seldom includes the mainstream, this was to be expected.

     "Well," she said after I'd finished, "I don't have time right now, but some friends and I are taking our kids to the park in a couple of hours. If you'd like, I'll tell you about your cabin there."

      "That sounds great," I replied. We exchanged a few more words before she headed back home, all the while I reveled at the notion that a piece of property I owned was considered haunted in one way or another. As I continued unpacking, my mind ran through all the possibilities as to what could captivate the kids about this place so much.

     Nothing which I had imagined came close to the reality of the situation.

     I did, of course, rendezvous with Nancy and the other neighborhood parents at the park that night. It was a short drive, given how secluded my cabin was. I'll spare the details of who was there and what was said, and simply jump into the story which had been told to me through the numerous contributions of the individuals present, as best I have understood it.

​

     During World War II, the U.S. Government and the Allies assembled a small group of scientists in an attempt to engineer a new kind of weapon. The idea was simple enough; take nature's strongest beasts and natural hunters, and gift them with human sapience. The result, it was theorized, would be a trainable, organize-able creature which could be led into battle and fight using its animal instincts and orders from its commanding officer.

     The early tests did not go over as well as the assembly of scientific minds had hoped. Many of the animals died, some experienced drastic personality changes, and others went mad and ended up killing themselves.

     One scientist, a Dr. H.R. Lurchend, had apparently realized that they were going about their task all wrong. The first five months of experiments were focused more on altering the brain of an already living animal. The key, he had thought, was to give the beast this human quality from conception.

     His theory was tested upon a goat, given as they are a docile creature and not nearly as lethal as a wolf or a fox. It grew in a lab until the day it was 'born'. The kid goat was said to be hideous, the experiment giving it the appearance of a goat with many physical characteristics of a human; the most disturbing of these characteristics were its eyes. When he did finally open them, they had not the dull emotionless glaze of a goat but the livelihood of a child.

     The thing became known as 'Lurchend's Adam', and later simply as 'Adam'. It grew and, in time, displayed signs of understanding. Unfortunately, by the time it had been deduced that Lurchend's experiment was a success, the war had ended, and the scientific unit had been shut down.

     According to the legend, Lurchend took Adam to his home, now my cabin, where Lurchend raised and schooled him. However, the Adam soon learned that he was the only one of his kind in existence, and slowly began to become unhinged. It began to question its existence, and resented its creator for not having a purpose for it. It was a freak to the world, and so did not belong in any one spot or another.

     No one is quite sure what happened in the cabin, but one night, an eerie, throaty voice echoed over the trees. It was Adam, shouting out his first word: "Die". The next morning, Lurchend's body was found. It had been cut numerous times by what was assumed to be an axe.

Adam, the 'Goatman', has never been found. To this day, he still hides in the forests around the cabin, waiting for someone to stay the night. The years of solitude have only increased his anger towards the human race for making the monster that is he, and he yearns for the blood of more victims.

​

     It was not the best story I'd heard, though it was eerie enough to make me turn on every single light in the cabin when I'd returned. It was around nine when I got back; the sun fully set for the night before me.

     I sat up in the loft with my notepad beginning the first draft of my story. My pen was all over the place, idea after idea flying onto the page. The narrative came alive as I watched my characters in the level below; getting their first hint that perhaps something was amiss with their lodging.

     Yes. Yes; what glorious suspense.

     It was about a quarter after midnight when I finally killed the lights and laid out across the couch like a bed. To say I was exhausted would be an understatement; between the driving, the story telling, and the writing I am uncertain of which taxed me more.

     As I lied on the couch slowly drifting off to sleep, I heard a noise from outside. It sounded much like someone banging on the door, but given how windy it was I convinced myself it was just the elements, and not Adam the goatman as my imagination quickly started dwelling on.

​

     I awoke rather late the next morning, the clock on my phone reading eleven forty-eight, to the feeling of something tapping on my head. As it came into focus I realized there was a rather large arachnid preparing to scale my face.

     I slid my hand in front of my nose; the thing adjusted its footing to stay on, and began walking my new little friend to the door. My thoughts were to my story, as I began crafting a rough skeleton on which I would add writing to after breakfast. Imagine my surprise as I discovered, crouched down on the ground like a group of archeologists, a collection of children from the neighborhood below. They jumped up and back upon my appearance, clearly startled by my sudden opening of the door.

     "Good morning," I said, setting the tarantula on the side of the house. "What's going on here?"

     "He was here last night," one of them said. I scanned the crowd and found Corey, who stood near the front, pointing at the door. I stepped out and closed it slightly to get a view of its exterior.

     The door, it appeared, had been scratched up; large gashes cut out of its face. The knob had been completely smashed in, now barely even usable. The frame had also taken a bit of a beating.

     "Alright Watson," I said, doing my best Peter Cushing, "What do you make of these damages?"

     "It was the goatman," a young girl called out. Obviously that was what all the kids believed; and why wouldn't they? They, like me in my youth, wanted to believe in this impossible creature that was beyond the boundaries of the 'mundane'.

     "Hmmm... perhaps," replied I, looking more at the doorknob. "Well, my friends, you should all head home. Wouldn't want to worry your parents, would you?"

     "Where are you going?" Corey called out as I grabbed my keys from inside my house.

     "Gotta go buy a new doorknob," I answered, "and probably some reinforcements for the frame."

     "What if he comes back?" another boy yelled. "He's going to kill you!"

     "Oh, I'm quite certain he just wanted to say 'hello'," I called back, slamming my car door shut.

​

     Upon my return from the local hardware store, I began a small debate with myself as to whether or not this was worth alerting the children's parents about. I, ordinarily, wouldn't care if such a prank were pulled; but then, a question is begged as to how they will learn otherwise?

     How will who learn otherwise? There were at least eight or nine kids at my door that morning, and I had only known the name of one. What proof had I that he had attempted this prank? The more I thought about it, the more I'd decided it couldn't have been any of those kids. There was a storm that night, and, under the pretense that this damage had been incurred when I heard the ruckus, it was twelve thirty in the morning.

     If it had not been one of the children, then who? I had been minutely flirtatious with Nancy that night at the park, but her husband didn't strike me as the kind who would get so jealous as to react in this sort of way. As for the other individuals whom shared in the construction of Lurchend's Legend, it was possible one of them had done it, but the motive remained elusive.

     I'd decided to ignore the matter for the time being; if the vandal had any sort of decency, I would not have to worry about this again. Still, the notion of catching said vandal in the act appealed greatly to me, so I once again found myself up late, immersed in my writing.

     My story was going along smoothly, that is say I was swiftly approaching the halfway point of my first draft. I felt happy with what I had completed at that point, and whatever I wasn't happy with I could change in the second draft.

     I'd grabbed my phone to check the time, yawning as exhaustion settled over me. One AM and still no disturbance from my mystery prankster. I clicked off the lights, lying down on the couch again as I waited for Mistress Slumber to carry me away.

​

     I had a most bizarre dream that night. I found myself within the confines of some underground government facility, though, how I knew I was underground or that the facility belonged to the government, I haven't a clue.

     I moved cautiously down the halls, pausing before each doorway as I prepared myself for whatever horror waited inside. Every room proved to be empty, save for some dirty, grimy tables. The whole interior of the place was a mess. A sort of mossy slime covered parts of the walls, and it had seemed a fire had burned through a good portion of the place. The lights flickered, and a noise echoed throughout the building; I couldn't tell if it were a mad man laughing hysterically or a child crying.

     After having searched seven, maybe eight rooms (though my dream-self recalled twelve others), I found a room which did not contain more of those filthy desks, but something far stranger. Inside was a prism constructed of four large metal beams, and attached to the beams was a sling which supported a rather majestic looking horse. I recall thinking, in my dream, how queer I thought it was that a horse should be in a place such as this.

     Slowly I entered the room, careful not to make a sound. I heard, off in the distance, the crying/laughing continue. Around the body of the horse walked I, as it faced away from the door, and was startled by what I saw.

     The face of the creature, looking akin to a horse, displayed many qualities relating it to a human. Its snout was considerably shorter, bringing its human-looking nose closer to its face than what it would be on an ordinary horse. The lips of the creature had a very human quality to them and its face was void of hair.

     "Oh my God," I whispered, slightly disturbed by the bizarre state of this... thing before me. Just then, the creature awoke, opening its eyelids to reveal a set of dark green eyes staring back at me.

     "What are you doing here?" it neighed, his voice raspy and deep. "Why are you here?"

     "I don't know," I told it, taking a step back. "I was told Lurchend was studying in his lab... I came to ask him some questions."

     "LURCHEND!?" The horse roared, kicking its legs. "Lurchend's heart stopped beating sixty years ago this day."

     "I'm so sorry to hear that," I said, my voice sounding nervous. For whatever reason, the dream rendition of me was unaware that Lurchend had been dead according to the legends.

     "Lurchend was killed," the horse continued, "murdered by the poison of the tree of the garden!"

     I took another step back as the polls supporting the horse began to loosen. "What tree? And in which garden?" I shouted over the ruckus.

     "Eve gave Adam sin, and so Adam sinned against God!" the horse bellowed. "Tonight, Lurchend is dead! Tomorrow, Lurchend shall live!"

     Just then the horse was freed from his sling, and immediately rose on its hind legs, neighing as the dim lights flickered once more. It kicked me hard in the chest, sending me flying against the wall.

     The nightmare concluded with the horse repeatedly kicking me with its front legs while I lay on the floor. As he attacked, the steed continually shouted "You weren't meant to be here!"

​

     I don't know if anything in the dream meant anything (Lord knows I hope not), but I figured a majority of it was born of a combination of the Goatman legend along with my own writings. Still, there is nothing quite like waking up downstairs in the corner when you fell asleep upstairs on the couch. I remember commenting to myself that sleepwalking was the mark of a good nightmare, but that did little to calm my pounding heart and racing mind.

     I ate my breakfast in silence, staring at the back of the cereal box as if I were actually reading it. My mind dwelled on the completion of my novel. I felt a little too shaken to work on it at that moment, but I knew if I waited until nightfall I would be far too paranoid about every little noise to work on it.

     My mind was brought back to the here and now by the banging of a set of hands knocking on my door. Once more I found the neighborhood kids at my door; I had apparently been visited by 'Adam' again last night.

     "He really has it out for you," a young girl commented as I replaced the doorknob.

     "What are you going to do, Mr. Beckmane?" Corey asked.

     "I have every intention of staying up tonight so I can have a talk with whoever it is whose doing this," I said, attempting to hold back my anger in front of the kids. Whomever was perpetrating these vandalistic pranks was beginning to frustrate me; two doorknobs had I gone through. I would give the man credit; he had at least gone through the efforts of leaving what appeared to be hoof marks in the dirt, though, he was betrayed by the human-like shape the remainder of his footprint took.

     "We know who it is," a boy with slick black hair piped in. I rolled my eyes, knowing what the child was going to say next. "It was the goatman!"

     I turned around, trying to keep my patience with the kids, but worn so thin had it been by this vandal. "Adam?" I said. "Adam the goatman! And why will he simply not come knock on my door in the light of day?" I knocked on the door three times for emphasis as I continued shouting into the woods. "I have no quarrel with the goatman! So come on, Adam! Come on over, we'll have some tea!"

     The children backed away from me; clearly I'd managed to frighten them. They stuck around long enough for me to finish my repairs to the door, and then disappeared. The rest of the afternoon I spent on my story. I found it difficult to focus, my anger consuming a majority of my thoughts, but I still pressed on.

     A bear was pounding on the door as the family cowered in the upstairs bath room. Birds had taken out the power hours ago, and now the family had only the dim glow of overused candles to light their path. Martha, the wife character, was bleeding, having been mauled by moose while at the lake earlier. It was truly remarkable that she had remained conscience for this long.

     I continued writing till about nine that night, my mental strength completely taxed by this point. I sat on the couch in the space downstairs, waiting for that moment when my vandal would return. I had two weapons out on the table waiting in the event that I needed them; a frying pan and a carving knife. I came to the woods for inspiration, but this felt far too much like a scene straight out of my text.

     The hours dragged and I began to think the individual wasn't coming that evening. The first night they had come at almost twelve-thirty, and last night was sometime after one. The only commonality between the two was that the vandalism had been done at a time after I had gone to sleep.         This, of course, gave me an idea.

     I grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen along with some matches and quickly ran around the cabin, lighting candles as I turned out the lights.              Switching off the lamp in the loft, I took my customary seat on the couch and waited for the fool to come.

     My heart pounded as I waited; I had never been involved in a confrontation quite like the one I had been preparing for that evening. The closest   I'd come was a slight altercation in the locker room in seventh grade, and even then a buddy of mine bailed me out of it.

     I'm not entirely sure how long I sat there in the darkness; it might have been half an hour, but it very easily could have been two hours. In any event, after a period of time, there was a pounding on my door. I stood; turning to rush down the stairs when suddenly the door began breaking. I began shuffling down the stairs, being careful not to fall, shouting "Get back! Get back!" but stopped as the assailant crossed the threshold of my door.

     In the dim light I could see that it was not human, but rather a goat. As the light from my flashlight fell upon it, my stomach churned as I realized what I was being confronted by. The goat's face had human lips, with minimal hair on its snoot and around its eyes. His eyes were arguably the most disturbing feature of the creature's face, as they held bright blue pupils which looked upon me with such anger and rage. No argument was there about it; the creature before me was the legendary Adam Lurchend.

     The goat threw its front legs upon the table, grabbing the knife. His eyes fell upon me as I began stepping back up the stairs, my eyes focused upon him. The candles cast ghastly shadows across his face as he snarled at me. I wasn't quite sure what to do, so I stood up in the loft and did the only thing that sounded right.

     "I-I don't want to hurt you," I said, holding onto the railing for support.

     "Who are you?" he bellowed at me, his voice old, deep, and raspy; not too unlike the horse in my dream from the night prior. "What is your name, man?!"

     "Jonathan," replied I, attempting to steady the hand which held the flashlight. "Jonathan Becmane. And you are Adam, aren't you?"

     "I have been called many names," he said. "The children refer to me as 'Goatman'. The adults who pervert my story call me 'Adam'. But to Hector Lurchend, I was 'son'."

     Towards the stairs he began to move, still standing upon his hind legs. Awkward were his strides, though it was obvious he had become accustomed to walking in this manner. He began to ascend the stairs, his legs shaking.

     "Who are you?" he asked again. "Why are you here?"

     I continued backing myself into the corner, bumping into the lamp. I'd spun to try and catch it, but was too slow.

     "I'm a writer," I explained. "My mother had gotten this cabin from her first husband, and I thought I might come out here to get some of my work done."

     "You have come to make fortune off of my fame," Adam accused.

     "No, no," I defended, completely up against the wall. "I swear to you, I hadn't the knowledge you or your legend existed until I arrived here."

     Adam halted, glaring at me. After a time, he turned, and looked over the edge of the loft, thinking something over in his mind. Finally, he tucked the knife into a belt which encompassed his waist, and assumed a four legged position.

     "A fryer's pan and a dulled knife," he remarked. "You've clearly not come to kill me. Although, I'd almost prefer it."

     "You seem quite certain someone is trying to hunt you," I said.

     "The stories they tell," He started, his voice sounding heavy, "I've heard them before. They tell a tale of a monster so wicked that he killed his own father. I have killed not a single man in mine lifetime."

     "What happened?" I asked, stepping towards Adam cautiously. "On the night of Lurchend's death, they say you had killed him. What occurred that night that over these sixty years it has been perverted into the legend the people share even now?"

     In the dimness I could hear Adam sigh. The candles threw their light upon his face in a manner that exaggerated his features, making him appear so old, so worn. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, as if the story which he were about to share was a great burden.

     "You are a chronicler," he said in melancholy, not so much a question, but a statement.

     "I produce fiction," I replied.

     "You will chronicle my story," Adam half-commanded. "To us it will be truth, but your readers will regard it as your lofty fiction, regardless of how passionately you advocate its truth."

     I sat down on the couch, pulling a notebook from my bag. The sound must have startled him, or perhaps he thought I was moving for a gun, for he turned sharp, growling as he drew the knife from his belt.

     "I'm just grabbing a notebook," I said calmly, holding one hand up. "Just a notebook and a pen." I produced the two from my bag, and held them up for him to see. His muscles relaxed, somewhat, and he returned the knife to his belt as he turned away from me.

     "I will begin when you are ready," he offered, hanging his head. I stood and had started to head for the stairs when he cut me off. In the dimness of my flashlight, it was hard to tell if the look upon his face was threatening or pleading.

     "I need to turn on the lights," I explained. "I can't see so well in this."

     He turned away from me, and started down the stairs. "You will stay up here," he requested as I began to follow. I heard his hooves from down below as he made his way to the switch by the door. Once the lights had illuminated, Adam began his narrative, remaining downstairs. He spoke slow and deliberate, providing me sufficient time between words and sentences to jot it all down.

     I provide you now with my account of his narrative, written in the first person as it is, in fact, word-for-word what he had recited to me. My only regret is that I've no way to convey to you in writing the tone which his voice had assumed as he shared his story with me. It was calm, yet angry.        His pacing was steady, though, he was upset at his own words. If only I'd thought to record it...

     In any event, I present to you 'The Night of Lurchend's Death', as told by Adam Lurchend.

​

     "The war had ended; the white coats drank their alcohol and reveled in the victory of their respective country's efforts. All except for my father, Hector Lurchend, who sat by my side, smiling, but not partaking in the drunken joys of his comrades. The celebrating carried over well into the next morning. I still remember the exclamations from the radio. It would seem that, for now, the world was not going to end.

     "On the second day after the Axis surrender, the white coats were given orders to return home. One of them, a man named Hartnell, had asked the officer who'd delivered the orders what was to become of me. The officer had stated that because there was no longer a need to precede with these weapons tests, my life was to be terminated. Father had requested one more night with me to truly say 'farewell'. I still remember the officer's remark to my dad. He'd said, 'What's the matter Lurchend? Feeling a little too close to that disgusting lab rat of yours?'

     "The other white coats stood between him and my father and me; all of them understanding that I was more than just some creature. The officer agreed to my father's request, albeit reluctantly.

     "That night, father smuggled me out to a man who'd owed him a favor. After a long debate, the man had agreed to take me back to the States on his fishing boat. I have come to understand that after we'd set sail, father faked my death, informing the officer the next morning that he had killed me himself. The officer bought it, of course. Not a soul at the lab knew of my escape, save for Dr. Hartnell and another man, Dr. Stine; both of whom my father considered to be close friends.

     "My passage to the States was uncomfortable. The ship's captain, as good a man as he was, kept me below deck the whole time, and often spent hours staring at me in disgust. I was a freak, and this man made certain I knew it.

     "It was nightfall when, finally, we'd reached shore. I had not known how many days we were at sea. Lurchend met us at the dock, the bed of a truck set up to hide me as we journeyed to his cabin here in South Dakota. I felt alone, I felt alienated, but at the very least I knew my father loved me.

     "Life was not so easy for me. I had not any friends, and I could only go outdoors after nightfall. Father schooled me, trying to teach me everything he could. I learned much, though, try as he may, I still could not bring myself to speak. Father knew I would pick up that trait eventually. 'You'll have a place in this world someday,' he'd said.

     "One day, years after we'd returned home, father had received a letter from Dr. Hartnell. Hartnell had written to say he was to visit in order to see father again and to check on my progress.

     "'Something doesn't feel right about this,' Lurchend had said as he sat, reading it. On numerous occasions while we were still living in the lab overseas, father had noted how close Hartnell was to the officers.

     "'Something is wrong here Adam,' he'd say to me. ’I don't know what Hartnell is planning, but I'm not sure I like this.'

     "The night Hartnell arrived, dad requested I go hide away by the lake in a small alcove we'd discovered during our numerous walks until that time when he came to retrieve me. I did as he instructed, at first, but as I walked to my spot I heard many vehicles heading for our cabin.

     "By the time I'd gotten home, Hartnell was already inside. The cabin, it appeared, had been surrounded by officers and large military trucks. I stayed back in the woods and waited, wondering what, if anything was going to happen. After a time, Hartnell appeared out of the house.

     "'He's not hear!' he'd shouted. 'Search the woods! I want to see his body!'

     "I ran as fast as I could back to that place where father had requested I wait for him. I heard the boots of the soldiers all evening and the majority of the next morning.      

     When night fell once more, I made my way back to the cabin, always my eyes searching for danger. What I saw when I finally got home has stuck with me to this day.

     "The place had been ransacked; the cabinet's contents littered across the floor. The table had been upturned, and much of the furniture had been destroyed. I searched the lower level of the cabin but could not find my father. I went upstairs and found his body next to the overturned sofa.

     "He had been stabbed numerous times and shot multiple more. My mind cringes at the thought of what they must have done to him in an attempt to extract from him my location. As I held his cold, bloody body in my arms, I began to weep.

     "I turned my face to the Heaven's and shouted my first word; 'why?' It was a question which I still have not the answer. Why had I been created? Why did Lurchend save me that night? Why was I being hunted? Why did Lurchend protect me? Why did he die so that I may live?

     "I abandoned the cabin, and my father, and ran into the woods where I have remained, hidden from the world for the past sixty years. I had, from time to time, visited my father's grave under the cover of nightfall. I'd have to be careful to avoid society's eyes, for though my father believed I would at some time serve a purpose for them, I would never be accepted.

     "The years have been unkind; I have heard the twisted stories the children tell, and I am certain there are still some authorities attempting to finish Hartnell's task.

     "It is of no consequence, however. I am not completely alone; Lurchend had more than one son."

​

     As I finished penning Adam's last words, I asked him what he meant by those words, 'Lurchend had more than one son'. However, he did not respond. I made my way down the stairs and discovered the cabin to be empty; not a sign that he had been here at all save for the crumpled remains of the front door.

     Out into the cool night air I ran with my flashlight, calling Adam's name. Part of me was disappointed I hadn't gotten the chance to speak with him more. As he narrated his tale to me, I couldn't help but want to learn more about this man.

     The rest of my time at the cabin I spent compiling my thoughts and writing the story which has been presented to you now. I replaced the door, and stayed up every night for the remainder of my time at the cabin, hoping that Adam might perhaps come back. I regret to say, I have not seen him since.

     I conclude my tale by appealing to those individuals living in the Black Mountains of Brickhem, South Dakota who have, over the course of decades, turned his story into a dark legend told around campfires. I cannot fault the community for the perversion of Adam's story, given his elusiveness, but the legend is fake. It is a story constructed over the course of the years in an attempt to scare you while you lay in bed at night as a child. But Adam Lurchend is real.

     He is an old, lonely soul and longs for the comfort of a friend. In the event that he should happen to show himself, or if, walking by the lake one day you happen to stumble across his dwelling, do not fear him. He is not a monster, but one of the most human minds I have ever met.