The year was 2021. I was a private investigator working out of my one-bedroom apartment, studying people and places around my small hometown in southern Ontario. The world had been plagued with a pandemic that forced people apart, faces to be covered, and businesses to struggle for survival. In my desperation to keep my mind occupied and my mental sanity in tact, I had decided to explore neighbouring areas and look into the history and mysteries of these tiny communities.
As of late I have had a growing fascination with history and ancestry. After studying both sides of my parents’ lineages, I now wanted to focus my attention on the small towns surrounding the place where I had spent my life.
This afternoon I drove through the small town of Warsaw. As a child, I had held my father’s hand as we explored the Warsaw Caves which had been purchased to become a conservation area in 1962. The place held a lot of history in itself, not to mention a lot of bats in the winter months.
It was the older, rundown farms and the remodelled churches that drew my interest on this particular weekend. There were plenty to chose from to take a closer look at as I drew through the snow-covered countryside.
One particularly small building intrigued me more than any of the others. As did the fact that there was a black truck parked beside the building. I pulled my army green jeep in behind the truck and put the gear into park.
Silence reigned. There was not a sound to be heard as I explored around the exterior of the house. Snow surrounded the field as far as the eye could see, and the cold winter air breezed through my skin like frozen ice water pouring down on me. I wrapped my thick puffed black jacket tighter around me and adjusted my toque and my scarf before trying the front door of the shack.
I heard movement from inside the building as I tried to open the door. I wasn’t exactly armed, unless you counted the pepper spray and slingshot in my pocket… and the small jagged knife I had bought from the local pawn shop. I had thought Terry was nuts when he had suggested I never leave home without it, but now I had the feeling I would be writing him a thank you letter when I got home. I reached in the pocket and held the knife in my hand, bracing myself for whatever, or whoever, was inside.
The moment I shoved the door open, nudging it with all the strength I had, my arm was grabbed by a strong fist. I was tugged inside and pinned to the wall before I could even realize what was happening. The man held both of my arms at my sides and pressed me into the hard, wooden wall. The funny thing was, I wasn’t afraid. There was something about his forcefulness, and the look of his dark eyes, that made me feel frozen in place.
