hAPPY hALLOWEEN

Final Report




Disappearance of George Cherrette/ derangement of deputy Will Cherrette 6/12 /20011




No one should ever read this but I've been a by the book law enforcement officer for too long to change now. I've made out this report but I will use my authority as sheriff to bury it in the files. This narrative is made up from bits and pieces I've culled from many hours spent at the asylum with deputy Cherrette. It would never stand up in court but I believe that it represents a true account of what occurred in the early morning hours of 6/ 12/ 20011. My own comments will appear in parenthesis. The rest is constructed from short snatches of coherent speech between screams, moans and gibberish. None of it was told in a narrative form and some has been deduced by me to fill the gaps. Most of these deductions are based on the limited physical evidence.


My cousin George and I have been best friends and fishing partners for as long as I can remember. For the last fifteen years or so we have tried to fish the Hexagenia Limbata hatch together someplace with a good chance of producing a really big trout. This year we decided to sneak on to the elk ranch property to fish the Cthulhu hole. ( I had always thought that this hole on the Ebon River was named by some early fan of H.P. Lovecraft but during this investigation I found that it goes back to the earliest maps of the area. It is one of the few places on the river identified with a name on those old maps). We parked on county road 47 at about eight o'clock the night of June 11 and proceeded to hike the six and a half miles to the pool. We figured that being so hard to reach and in the middle of the private club the fish would be big and wild. ( The guides who work for the ranch do not take clients to this hole . People are uncomfortable here and tips tend to be small if they go near this area. It is also one of the wildest parts of the ranch as somehow none of the roads and R.V. trails go near it.) When we got there using a handheld GPS unit to find our way through the old growth forest we found an ideal spot for fishing the big bugs. The river was a fast riffle above the long wide bend . The bend itself shelved down from a shallow marl bottom to a deep bottomless looking hole lined with sweepers and overhanging branches. We rigged up our rods and took a couple of casts to check out the drift pattern of the surface water before opening a couple of beers and waiting an hour for darkness. For a while we thought that this would be one of those nights when we just stayed at the rivers edge for several hours and then went home without ever casting to a fish. Then it started as it always does with a few rises from the smaller fish.
Soon we heard the distinctive sound of a big fish inhaling the emerging mayflies. We'd flipped a coin earlier and George had won first shot at it. I moved a ways down the bank to give him casting room and listen for another big fish. George carefully waded out far enough to get a little casting room and put his big bushy drake fly on the water a bit above the place where the feeding sounds were coming from. A moment later I heard the sound of his line ripping off the water as he set the hook. "It's a big one " he shouted "I can't move it at all." He began to move forward into the deeper water . At first I thought this was deliberate as he tried to get more pressure on the fish. Then he cried out to me "Willie, it's pulling me in. Help me!" If you didn't hear his voice you might have thought he was playing around, going back to our earliest days of fishing together. If you heard him you would know he was in fear of being drowned. I ran back up the bank to where he was stumbling forward and tried to reach for his shoulder as I yelled to him to break off the leader. "It won't break ", he shouted . "I think" and then he screamed. He's still screaming. He's dead but he is still screaming. As he fell forward out of my reach I looked past him and saw whatever it was that waited for him. I reached inside my waders and drew my revolver . I fired two shots at that thing. I don't know if I hit it. I only know that for the first time it noticed me. Now I too was screaming. The thing never left the river but it touched me in some way. We continue to scream as it continues to touch us.


Deputy Cherrette was found wandering in the woods by Elk Ranch employees who heard his screaming on the morning of June twelfth . No sign of George Cherrette has been found. We found Will Cherrette's fly rod and a small cooler with two full cans of beer and two empties on the bank by the Cthulhu hole. George's pickup truck was on the shoulder of county road 47 about six and one half miles West of there. For the last six months I have spent several hours each day listening to Deputy Cherrette. He was one of my deputies and I have sworn to find who did this to him even if I would have fired him for his poaching trip. Now I know that I should never have tried to learn too much about whatever is in that hole. I too have been noticed. I can feel it pushing at the edges of MY mind. I have considered talking to pastor John but I fear leading it to him. So I can only pray.


THIS WAS FOUND ON SHERIFF RAILLE'S DESK THIS MORNING. HE IS NOT COMMUNICATIVE. HE CONTINUES TO SCREAM AND HAS TORN OUT HIS EYES

I had no idea that you had studied writing at dear old Miskatonic U.

Ed

Sabretooth muskrat, no doubt.

Ed, there is no way that I could afford to attend Miskatonic but if those fancy professors would listen to us local yokels instead of pushing in where they don't belong they would be a lot happier.