The Fox and the Butterfly

By Seth Adams

On Christmas Eve, Harper Furlong comes home to find his house has been broken into in his absence. It doesnt take long to conclude that this was no normal invasion, as he follows prints leading out the window.
Paw prints.
Harper has recorded the events that follow in the journal you now hold. What begins as an absurd encounter too bizarre to believe quickly escalates into a journey of supernatural proportions. Prepare for the wilderness, for the ultimate fight between good and evil.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524602772

Seth Adams

Seth Adams was born in 1984 in Xenia, Ohio. He currently lives in New Carlisle, Ohio, with his wife and kids. He is oftentimes stuck in his own mind, or in ones created by others, hence why this is his first published work. He has been a Christian for most of his life, currently a member of Park Layne Church of the Brethren. You can find him on Facebook and Twitter.

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© 2016 Seth Adams. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/14/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5246-0278-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-0277-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016905774

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

KJV

Scripture quotations marked KJV are from the Holy Bible, King James Version (Authorized Version). First published in 1611. Quoted from the KJV Classic Reference Bible, Copyright © 1983 by The Zondervan Corporation.

Contents

Day 1      December 24th

Day 2      December 25th

Day 3      December 26th

Day 4      December 27th

Day 5      December 28th

Day 6      December 29th

Evening? Day 6-7?      December???

8:26am      January 1st

7:19pm      January 1st

This Journal Belongs to:

Harper Furlong

Day 1      December 24th

It’s been a long time since anything has been profound enough for me to sit and reflect upon it. What I just witnessed is certainly something worthy of a children’s story, a holiday fable, or at least a desperate news segment to fill the void between sports and traffic. On a day when children set aside sleep for vigilance at their windows, trapped in the gift-wrapped spirit of insomnia and excitement, I find myself glancing out into the flurries as well. Only, instead of seeking out the jolly fat man, I am trying my best to dissect my surroundings and the culprit that is seemingly tied to it all…

First, let me clarify. I live in Woodenborough, Tennessee; a small community populated by people who are actively involved in everything as long as it can be done from a computer keyboard. It makes for quiet streets, monotonous days, and simple living. The only people left in the neighborhood who lean towards being more personal and sociable happen to live on either side of me, and they drive me up the wall, naturally. I digress.

Everything is set to schedules and personal comforts; yards with perfectly cut grass, landscaping cut from a magazine, cars you can eat off of, and a nightlife consisting of lights flashing from windows cast by massive flat screen televisions. It’s the most peaceful and perfect ghost town full of living, breathing people you could ask for. For a time, I would address my envelopes with Purgatory, Tennessee.

You can tell which homes have been in the community as easily as hanging a black and white photo beside a brightly colored finger painting. The area used to be part of the milling industry that was established in the area. The cracker-jack homes were built shortly after World War II for returning soldiers, housing them close to fresh work in a more resolute area. I think it helped for those who could no longer handle the loud city life, but contradictorily, working at a sawmill didn’t end up being much better. Some of the few unfortunate souls plagued by their service found resolution by ending their lives there. After a string of hangings, accidents on the site, and a drowning, the mill started offering jobs to the general public. To this day, the mill is nicknamed Red Would Run. Only the locals knew that it wasn’t referring to redwood trees, or that it wasn’t how the chopped wood would ride down the flumes to the river, but eventually it got around once the new arrivals realized that Tennessee was mostly forested with oak.

As things of such uncomfortable nature are usually treated, the mill slowly fell to ruin and was left for dead. Between the rumors, fables, and ever-widening diameter of the work area heightening costs, the hills became silent, and the town of Woodenborough declined as many people, my father included, lost their jobs. That was the year I was born, September of 1973.

Nevertheless, after the stagnant spell the area went through struggling to stay alive, nearby cities began to flourish and expand. In the early 1990’s, this growth reached our backdoor and people began to build a new suburban-style community, buying up land, narrowing our yards, condensing our stores, commercializing the area, preparing it for the daily commute. Even though it breathed new stability into the area, it left many natives bitter. Thus, the line in the sand was drawn, but the shadow cast by the new-age giants quickly blotted it out, smothered it, and left them forgotten.

Those that would not be bought, as rooted as the trees around them, were looked upon in shame. Despite town meetings, petitions, and other vocal activists claiming their righteous proclamations as the only truth and way like blind Pharisees couldn’t get them to budge, leaving a taint on them as they held on to what they had.. As time passed, they faded away, probably hoping we too would fall into ruin, as the mill had. Time changes everything, as they say.

Well, almost everything. Time doesn’t change what just happened in my home, for example. The very fabric that binds my logic and reasoning, the forty two years of life on this planet that has taught me what is realistic and what is impossible, cannot and will not accept this situation. And yet, I am forced to cross that line, now overshadowed by the only truth there is. Reluctantly, I shall recollect the last hour to you now.

Upon my arrival, all was as it had been when I had left, besides the temperature inside. Crossing the threshold, I only made it a few steps before realizing something was wrong. I had nearly fallen, light-headed for a moment as the shock of what I saw sunk in. In my living room, the back window was open, curtains grasping at my reading chair, a layer of snow blanketing everything within an approximate seven foot radius. A coffee mug had found its way onto the floor, staining the pale Italian rug with still-steaming coffee. To make matters worse, it was spiked, the hint of Jim in the air and an open bottle on the bar gave my Sherlock senses more than enough to soak in. A cigar, one of my Jamaican imports, sat smoldering in its own ashes.

Had the infamous Santa found himself a home bearing gifts instead of giving any? My feracious belongings had been ransacked, post haste. A rustling of the pages from today’s paper snapped dread into my heart. Was someone still in the house? I certainly had no roommate move in whilst being away. The children were older, moved out, away and far. My wife, infinitely farther. My quiet seclusion begged to ask who would invade my home.

I took a calming breath, placed the bags I had carried in upon a kitchen table chair, and reached for anything nearby blindly with my other hand, my eyes locked upon the room and adjacent hallway. My fingers wrapped around a handle, so I grabbed that and pulled it to my chest. A cold piece of scrambled egg plopped onto my neck. I had snatched up the spatula from the pan, morning’s breakfast still caked on it. Lovely.

Now completely jostled, I made my way to my tufted brown leather reading chair. The cigar finish was sheeted with snow so closely resembling cotton, I’d thought it was shredded open. At closer inspection, it looked more like something had been on the cushion, the snow piled up in the corners yet the middle bare. Bits of mud and... hair? Short and red, sprinkled across the seat.

Fur.

Whoever had broken into my home had brought their pet with them! The audacity of this pompous cur! Who does that? I would fume about this further, but my assumptions were still wrong. As I tremored with quiet anger, I shook some egg onto the chair and the floor, where I then realized there were paw prints. This struck a new chord with me suddenly, as I darted a glance all around the room, concluding that there wasn’t any sign of footprints. The only disturbance in the snow across the left side of the room was the paw prints leading to the window.

Forgetting to check the rest of the house, I slid over to the open window and pushed my head out in the brisk night sky. I connected the trail with my eyes until they rested upon their creator. Halfway across the yard, at the entrance to the garden, sat a fox. A fox! Its fur was just receiving a fresh application of snow, and it was looking straight at me.

As I go back and read that last paragraph, as I relive the moment for the fifth time in my mind, and I look around the room…. Absurd. It’s