He’d stumbled upon part of the land that was familiar, a favorite getaway of his father’s. It was perhaps where he’d first instilled the idea of the animal in George’s imagination, the idea that something monstrous, even sinister, was roaming the property. His father would grip George’s hand with such intensity as they walked that he could feel his blood pulse in time with his heartbeat. Benjamin spoke in tones so low that the act of listening required an effort equal to keeping pace with his father’s steps, but George’s endurance was always lifted by the sacred importance of the story.
The background of the beast was unclear, but his father had seen it once while walking alone, and could describe it with a startling vividness: a black coat of fur that clung to the shadows, moving fluidly as if it were part of the darkness itself; it appeared upright, but took to all fours upon being seen, disappearing as quickly as it had materialized; its eyes were the greatest giveaway, marbles of milky white, like those of a blind man, so haunting that even Benjamin had raced off in fear （a decision he would come to regret）。
Their afternoon hikes were a call to arms to track the animal, however real it was or wasn’t, and even a young George figured this time together, more than anything, was simply a chance to be with his father and learn the land that would one day belong to him. That is, until he saw the beast himself one night from his bedroom window, and then many nights thereafter…
His memory was interrupted by a yell. He couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like Isabelle calling his name. He bolted up and returned the way he’d come. Nothing had led him to believe this was anything but his mind playing tricks on him, yet when he arrived in the clearing, there she was on the front porch, her hand cupped to her mouth, staring off. He had walked fast enough that his hip was bristling, with pinpricks thrumming the length of his side.
“I’m here,” he said when he reached the porch. “I’m right here.” He stood at attention and swept the dirt from his pants. “Was just on a stroll.” He peeked past her, wondering if she’d received another visitor, but the house appeared empty.
“I’m sure you were,” she said. “I was hoping you might go to town and send a telegram for me. To Silas. He should know the news of his nephew.”
“If that’s what you want. I’d only remind you his last message made it clear he was only starting back home a week ago. In which case he wouldn’t receive it for some time.”
“Send it to the house. Lillian will receive it. She should know as well.”
“First thing tomorrow.”
“Thank you. I don’t wish to hold a…hold any ceremony until Silas returns. He’d wish to be here for it.”
George had no quibble and said that it should be up to her in any case. They stood there. Now was the moment. It seemed to George that a great decision hung in the balance. Isabelle would either stay down in the parlor or else retreat again upstairs away from him. He felt an overwhelming urge to act, to keep her near, to rectify all that had gone wrong between them.
“Perhaps we could read something together,” he said.
She didn’t seem disturbed, exactly, or even moved to respond. When she spoke, the words were cold, as if to extinguish his own. “I believe you can read without my assistance, George. I will be upstairs if you need anything.”
He went into the kitchen and found that in his absence she had cleaned the egg-caked pan and hung it back above the stove. There was little else to do but tidy up the kitchen further, and so he did this, pondering her actions once again, whether they were due to her suffering or her defiance—the latter directed at him or the former at what they had lost—and he wept standing against the sink, the same place she had when he’d delivered the news, lengthy moans and embarrassing sobs. When the time came he prepared a dinner of eggs, as the chickens had been active in recent weeks and he was the only one who might eat the eggs now and he wished to correct the injury paid to his breakfast.
The only accompaniment for dinner, as darkness descended, was a Dickens novel, one he had read on and off again for some weeks, putting it down when distracted. This time he meant to make significant progress, but at a rustle off in the woods he set it aside. A voice stemming from some distance pleaded in an ever-rising tone. Nothing appeared out the window, not even the moon. Finally, there was a crackling and a pair of rambling shadows broke through the trees and drifted toward the cabin, one in front of the other. The large shadow—Landry, George saw now—advanced beside Prentiss, who walked with his back to the cabin, speaking harshly and attempting to wave Landry off.