The Beast of 1977 (Book 1)

An empty, small, quiet church inhabited an equally isolated pasture. Eight pews in all; four on both sides. Down in front, a short
pulpit, behind the pulpit, a ten foot tall porcelain statue of Christ Jesus, nailed to a cross that was lanced onto a wall above,
looking down with a woeful demeanor.
Like a sudden explosion, the beast crashed straight through one of the windows and into the church, landing on the newly
cleaned red carpet. It shook off shards of glass from its thick fur while its mouth was completely soaked with blood.
Its face appeared as evil as the sins that it had been committing all evening long. It crept about the building as though it were in
search of something. Its heavy breathing echoed throughout the church.
The demon's immense paws tracked snow, mud and blood all over the floor, leaving both a mess and deep crevices behind it. As
it prowled, large globs of feces dropped from its anus; some in small clumps, and others in elephant sized layers.
The ungodly creature, on all fours, plodded around the sanctuary until it found itself in front of the altar. Its glaring eyes happened
to look up to see the crucified savior.
At first, the beast only shook its hairy head from side to side like an agitated bull, until it managed to catch the statue's eyes
slowly creep open and look back down upon it.At first, both individuals gave each other only hard stares, as if they were waiting
for the other to make a move.
Then, the beast, possibly out of a confused rage, opened its mouth wide and let out a vicious roar before slumping down to its
knees in agony.
It lied on the carpet, writing in pain. A minute or two passed before the Nazarene, with his crown of bloody thorns perched upon
his head, picked the demon up by its shoulders and dragged it away, leaving only a black streak behind on the carpet.Ever so
gradually, the beast's snout was beginning to shrink.
There was an uncanny, almost appalling silence in the deep farmland that evening. The natural nighttime sounds, from the
hooting owl, to the occasional rambling barking dog, were nowhere to be heard.
A February winters twilight never felt so alone and frigid; it was as if the entire world had left Cuyahoga Falls behind.
Silence never sounded so ugly.
6:37 a.m.

The subzero, overcast sky bared down upon the seven brown and white police cruisers that crept into the driveway of 1941
Prosler Road that following morning.
Both Detective Linus Bruin and his partner, Detective Alan Fitzpatrick climbed out of their vehicle with their individual pistols
already in hand. Fourteen other police officers tagged along behind the two, all with their respective weapons drawn.
Bruin's white sideburns coiled in the harsh wind as he brashly stalked towards the house. He pulled down his black wool hat
tighter on his head as his pale white face grew a shade lighter from stomach dropping anticipation.
The man was never prepared to engage a suspect, and at 53, physical combat was practically a forgone fantasy.He poked his
head up to see through the frosted front window of the stylish home. He wasn't sure just what he would end up finding, but he
was certain that nothing was going to catch him off guard; the man had invested entirely too much time and effort into the case to
allow it to collapse before his eyes.
The detective stepped up onto the porch, knocked on the door and loudly hollered, "Police! Open Up!"
After five seconds, he looked back at the waiting officers before returning his attention to the door where he proceeded to muster
all of the strength in his right leg to kick it in.
After three striking attempts, the door went flying wide open. The instant he stepped inside, the piercing buzzing sound of a loud
device could be heard clear from the front door.
"Hello?" Bruin called oud, pointing his gun straight ahead while skulking about for any signs of humanity.
One by one, Fitzpatrick and the other officers all cautiously made their way inside. Two ventured down a hallway, while the
others stuck behind Bruin.
As Linus neared the kitchen, he was all the more convinced that there could have been someone waiting for him on the other
end. The buzzing commotion was completely unfamiliar to him. Right then, a blustery wind rushed into the living room from the
kitchen. At first he reckoned that his suspect had escaped through a backdoor, which was exactly why his heavy feet paced even
faster towards the kitchen's threshold.
The very second he crossed through the kitchen's doorway, his brown eyes were immediately bombarded by the grotesque
visual of blood layered walls, and what resembled a mass of both torn bones and ripped flesh lying in a heap on the floor.
Every officer that viewed the mutilation stood back in both awe and repulsion at the horrendous scene laid out before them.

Bruin, a man who had always hoped that a gunshot victim would be the worst thing that he would ever have to experience in his
storied career as an officer, suddenly became ill to his stomach. He didn't want to step into the kitchen, but there were others
behind him that were a lot more daring.
Without giving it a second glance, the officers stampeded their way inside the freezing kitchen.
"Well," Fitzpatrick cringed, "I'll be dammed."
"No one in the other rooms, Detective," a black officer announced as he ventured into the kitchen. "What the hell?" He suddenly
gulped.
Bruin and his fellow officers all tip-toed around the disfigured corpse, but with all of the blood and body parts that littered the
floor, it was nearly impossible not to step in something gruesome.
"Is this him?" Bruin examined, kneeling down and poking at the body's mangled face with the tip of his gun.
"Leroy Cummins The Third." Fitzpatrick replied while clicking off the switch to the knife sharpener on the counter. "Age fifty-five."
In total astonishment, Bruin looked up to see the gaping hole in the wall to his right. "And just what in the blue hell could have
done that?" He pointed.
"Quite possibly the same thing that did this," Fitzpatrick motioned to the body while crouching beside Bruin.
The two men glanced over at each other with confounded glares on their cold faces as the hostile wind slammed into the kitchen
and on top of them.
"Look at this." One officer pointed at the destroyed basement door. "We're going down." He brazenly proclaimed, taking seven
other officers along with him.
Bruin and Fitzpatrick handed each other unsettling stares as though they had been one-upped by the other officers.
Just then, a young, heavy set, brown-haired white man with thick glasses and a brown winter coat came rambling into the
kitchen. Unlike his fellow officers, he didn't appear to be all too shaken by the macabre sight that lay before him.
He carelessly stepped over the carcass, nearly knocking over both Bruin and Fitzpatrick in the process, before approaching the
open wall. "What is this?" He questioned as he stooped down to the snowy ground.

"It's called snow, Brice." Fitzpatrick snidely remarked.
"I don't mean that. I mean, what kind of animal left these tracks?"
Bruin and Fitzpatrick stood to their feet and made their way over to where Brice was already crouched. They looked closely at
the oversized paw prints that were creviced in the snow in amazement.
"Could it be a bear?" Bruin curiously inquired while jabbing at one of the tracks with his finger.
"I've never seen a bear leave these kinds of tracks before." Brice confidently replied while looking over to his immediate left to
take notice of a few strands of black fur that was strewn all over the ground. "No, what we have here it far too big to be a bear,
I'm afraid."
"What is that, mane?" Fitzpatrick ogled.
"Lions have mane, Detective." Brice smugly answered without taking his eyes off of the specimen. "This is more of a North
American species, if you ask me."
"Well, whatever it is, it looks like it came up from out of the basement and got to Cummins." Bruin deliberated. "The tracks look to
head west of here."
"Let's get a body bag for this one!" Fitzpatrick pointed to the corpse before stepping back into the house, whipping out a piece of
chalk from his hip pocket and tracing a line around the cadaver.
"We've got sixteen bags down here!" An officer called out from the basement. "No survivors!" He then shamefully added.
"The sick fucker probably fed them to whatever he had hiding down there." Fitzpatrick sulked before stepping away from his
outlining duty.
Bruin knew that he should have gone downstairs immediately. Deep within, he realized that after so many months, finding any
survivors was all but a pipe dream, and yet, to hear a fellow officer announce it to the world was like having his own chest crack
in half. To him, it was all wasted hope and effort. He had no words or energy left in him to disburse.
"I only wish I could have personally fed Cummins to the damn thing myself." Fitzpatrick bitterly groaned before walking back into
the living room.
Bruin was all too ready to leave the house altogether, the entire investigation and cleanup would take nearly all day.

He stood to the side and meticulously observed two male coroners come into the kitchen to retrieve the body. Ever so carefully
they reached down and attempted to pick up what was left of the dead man only to have his body split in two right in their hands.
"Fuck me!" One of the young men angrily yelled before kneeling down to pick up Cummins' bottom portion.