The Beast of 1977 (Book 1)

Lake Logan went on for nearly eighty miles until it conjoined with Lake Erie. Isaac sat at the tip of the pier. The icy wind sliced right through his open coat and shirt and into his body like a rusty butcher knife.

His completely numb physique rocked back and forth on the ledge as though it were weightless.

The waves fiercely crashed and jostled up and down as if they were distressed or angered. Gripped strongly in the young man's right hand was a headless seagull. Its blood dripped down from out of its neck like water from a flowing faucet; being still a fresh kill.

Isaac's head hung low. His bottom lip was drooping, allowing the blood from the fowl to slowly funnel out of his gaping mouth. His eyes were slightly opened, but there was no life in them whatsoever that harsh afternoon as the brutally cold waves splashed onto both his pair of dress shoes and the bottom portion of his Sunday pants, causing them to become more damp by the minute.

Behind Isaac, in a fifty yard distance, sat a bright green 1975 Monte Carlo with its engine humming. The windows were darkly tinted to where only the clandestine individual inside could see out.

watched the young, spellbound man down at the pier all by himself, appearing as if he were only inches away from

be in the perfect position to possibly rear end Isaac directly into the water. But instead, the mysterious person

Isaac never budged an inch, unless the wind had nudged him. His eyelids didn't blink. It was as if his body was there, but his soul had remained back at the

over his desk in his small, uncoordinated office while peering down at an x-ray of Isaac's skull and chatting over the

to bother him all too much that what he was staring at took center stage over what his wife was desperately trying to convey to him. He would catch only every other sentence that she

focusing his blue eyes closer

and not a medical doctor meant that he really had no idea as to what exactly