The Beast of 1977 (Book 1)

An empty, small, quiet church inhabited an equally isolated pasture. Eight pews in all; four on both sides. Down in front, a short pulpit, behind the pulpit, a ten foot tall porcelain statue of Christ Jesus, nailed to a cross that was lanced onto a wall above, looking down with a woeful demeanor.

Like a sudden explosion, the beast crashed straight through one of the windows and into the church, landing on the newly cleaned red carpet. It shook off shards of glass from its thick fur while its mouth was completely soaked with blood.

Its face appeared as evil as the sins that it had been committing all evening long. It crept about the building as though it were in search of something. Its heavy breathing echoed throughout the church.

The demon's immense paws tracked snow, mud and blood all over the floor, leaving both a mess and deep crevices behind it. As it prowled, large globs of feces dropped from its anus; some in small clumps, and others in elephant sized layers.

The ungodly creature, on all fours, plodded around the sanctuary until it found itself in front of the altar. Its glaring eyes happened to look up to see the crucified savior.

At first, the beast only shook its hairy head from side to side like an agitated bull, until it managed to catch the statue's eyes slowly creep open and look back down upon it.At first, both individuals gave each other only hard stares, as if they were waiting for the other to make a move.

Then, the beast, possibly out of a confused rage, opened its mouth wide and let out a vicious roar before slumping down to its knees in agony.

It lied on the carpet, writing in pain. A minute or two passed before the Nazarene, with his crown of bloody thorns perched upon his head, picked the demon up by its shoulders and dragged it away, leaving only a black streak behind on the carpet.Ever so gradually, the beast's snout was beginning to shrink.

There was an uncanny, almost appalling silence in the deep farmland that evening. The natural nighttime sounds, from the hooting owl, to the occasional rambling barking dog, were nowhere to be heard.

A February winters twilight never felt so alone and frigid; it was as if the entire world had left Cuyahoga Falls behind.

Silence never sounded so ugly.

6:37 a.m.

The subzero, overcast sky bared down upon the seven brown and white police cruisers that crept into the driveway of 1941 Prosler Road that following morning.

Both Detective Linus Bruin and his partner, Detective Alan Fitzpatrick climbed out of their vehicle with their individual pistols already in hand. Fourteen other police officers tagged along behind the two, all with their respective weapons drawn.

He pulled down his black wool hat tighter on his head as his pale white face grew a

The man was never prepared to engage a suspect, and at 53, physical combat was practically a forgone fantasy.He poked his head up to see through the frosted front window of the stylish home. He wasn't sure just what he would end up finding, but he was certain that nothing was going to catch him

up onto the porch, knocked on the

waiting officers before returning his attention to the door where he proceeded to muster all of the strength in his right leg to kick it

open. The instant he stepped inside, the piercing buzzing sound of a loud device could be

gun

one, Fitzpatrick and the other officers all cautiously made their way inside. Two ventured down

someone waiting for him on the other end. The buzzing commotion was completely unfamiliar to him. Right then, a blustery wind rushed into the living room from the kitchen. At first he reckoned that his suspect had escaped through a backdoor, which was exactly why

eyes were immediately bombarded by the grotesque visual of blood layered walls, and what resembled a mass of both torn

the mutilation stood back in both awe and

Bruin, a man who had always hoped that a gunshot victim would be the worst thing that he would ever have to experience in his storied career as an officer, suddenly became ill to his stomach. He didn't want to step into the kitchen, but there were others behind him that were a lot

Without giving it a second glance, the officers stampeded their way inside

Fitzpatrick cringed, "I'll be dammed."

in the other rooms, Detective," a black officer announced as he ventured

of the blood and body parts that littered the floor, it was nearly impossible not

"Is this him?" Bruin examined, kneeling down and poking at the body's

Cummins The Third." Fitzpatrick replied while clicking off the

the wall to his right. "And just what in the

possibly the same thing that did this," Fitzpatrick motioned to the body

confounded glares on their cold faces as the hostile wind

"Look at this." One officer pointed at the destroyed basement door. "We're going down." He brazenly proclaimed, taking seven other

handed each other unsettling stares as though

a brown winter coat came rambling into the kitchen. Unlike his fellow officers, he didn't

knocking over both Bruin and Fitzpatrick in the process, before approaching the open wall. "What is this?" He questioned as he stooped down to the snowy