Butcher's Den (Part I)

You know, I'm not from around here, but I've heard quite a few stories that make me glad of that fact. I've been traveling the states, trying to see the world in all its glory. I spent some years up in Washington State; they say the Bigfoot lives up there. 'course, there's also folks up in Maine claiming to have seen a Bigfoot. I call it balderdash. Bigfoot's just a legend, just like those Dakota jackrabbits with them antlers. Jackalopes, that's what they called 'em. Everywhere I go, everyone's got their stories, their fantastical creatures they're just too damned excited to show off to visitors. Things're just the same here in Bemidji, hell, this one traces everywhere across the map. They've got Paul Bunyan in Akeley, in Brainerd, in Michigan, Wisconsin, hell, they've even got him up in Maine. I bet him 'nd Bigfoot are the best of friends.

Most stories you hear of that giant come off as mere folklore. As another tourist attraction set up to keep the money flowing. I know the difference; but Paul's a different story for some other story teller. Bemidji's got the giant with no axe, but they'll never tell you why. But that's not all that this city's got. Like I'd been saying; I've traveled a fair few miles, but rare are the occasions that I land upon such a city as this.

Many believe that it began solely as a logging town, but this is only partially true. There are those amongst the town's population, and those outside as well, that tell tales of quite a different beginning for this young town. Not many take their words for fact. Alcohol sure is a nice quick way to take and break one's reputation amongst their fellow neighbors. Most blame their families or swindling wives on their misery, others raise their glass to failed business, but there are some that take a drink to save their sanity.

Bemidji used to be a lumberjack's town. Felling trees and hauling cut timber about had been the everyman's method to earning a buck for flapjacks and candlewax. That's what we've been told at least. Back then there used to be a small band of no good crooked cops holding on to the Western ideal of Justice. Hell, y'couldn't even consider 'em cops back then, too civilized of a word for those folks.

These guys had it in their minds to blame troubles on nearby indians. They figured it'd be a good way to relieve the stress of never getting any tale in these godforsaken woods. At first it had just began as scare tactics. Any time they'd have time away from work a band of 'em would get together and go out 'n hunt some indian; all too similar to western films we have today, yet all the more malicious, malevolent and down right disturbing.

Early into their so-called 'expressive' activities, a native would show up to the post-office or what was in a poor attempt to be an infirm beaten and bruised. Bones would be broken and blood covered their chests, and those around the town began to catch on. The men would become hassled, they had thought others may have had the same sentiments towards the indians. They were forced underground by the town. Quite literally an underground series of rooms slowly took shape north of the river on the lakeside. An old beaver's den became the place of torture. The inside was gutted and reinforced. No one noticed from the town, no signs showed above the ground.One man began to live within those walls. Those men began to bring back their captives, to force them underneath and bring about their personal forms of punishment.

The man living below was known simply as Jon. To those brought below he was the hellbringer, the devil on earth. His eyes had gone to adjust to the swallowing dark beneath the earth. Those that looked into his eyes had seen a being soul-less. He was blind, but knew the body well. The earth deadened the screams coming from below. The town and its people had very little connections with those natives that surrounded them. Hardly any had grown to discover what lay under their very feet.

For years it went on. Those victims still fit to walk would be released back to their tribes; a sign to show that they were not wanted. The town had slowly begun to forget those men who had shown up bruised and beaten, believing it only to have been a small blip within their history. Yet underneath it thrived. Men and women would enter, and for days they would be starved; held in captivity. Jon would pick a victim, pick his tools, and pick away at the flesh that held in what should only come loose in war or accident. Skulls would be scalped and salted. Screams would bring joyous laughter to Jon and those with enough stomach to watch. Bones would break and heal to be broken once more. Blood stained the ground and would be washed away through the entrance to the lake. Reeds and weeds flourished outside the old beaver's den and few knew why. The town continued to expand across the lakeshore, and soon the school was under construction.

Many of those who previously hunted for the indians began to give up. They'd grown old with age and had lost what thrill had come from taking another's life; in making them suffer. No one has yet to discover the entrance to the den, so few even know of its existence, even fewer go out in search. Those that have heard believe the spirits of those who's lives had been taken still linger beneath. Jon the Butcher has a stone in the graveyard, dying the day the he lived underground. To this day, those near the shore may still hear a faint scream, or even still, some may hear that faint laughter that pierces further than the coldest of nights.