Contemporary Cryptozoology and Other Phenomena, by Jodie Norman
(Kept in shorthand)
Entry 1, 14 May 2025, Cephalo Pond: Arrived at the pond a few minutes behind schedule. The trees on the downwind warp. Thought pine bristles were scales or exoskeletons. Not an unimportant environmental note.
Cephalo Pond resides off a strangely carved trail with minimal sunlight some ways down Fishtail Valley. They call it “Fishtail” because it is thin, long, and the locals tell tales of an enormous, dismembered fishtail appearing one day like a fallen tree, just lying there. An aside. Today’s trophy dwelled in the pond itself; just the one, far as I could tell.
Roiled water shimmered the brown-green of old ponds. Motes of duckweed and filaments of algae lurched on its surface, like arms and organs. Those extremities became an expectation, almost a craving after the drive. The only humanish feature of the pond was a discoloured ring buoy tethered to a rotten post.
I had been sweating in my waders all day, not wanting to waste time. The cast net skimmed the water as I slunk in. I did not imagine the squid could assume such an intricate shape as the algaes, so I allowed the touch of kelp, tingling not unpleasantly, as I cast the spidery net over the ring and flipped it. The buoy was heavy, black, unsteady, an outspread thing suctioned to its perfect circle. The squid matched its description: the size of a head, a rhombus cavern for an eye, eleven uneven tentacles sprouting from every angle, mimicking the ring.
Its flesh looked edible—inviting, even.
Entry 2, 15 May 2025, Big’s Foot Gas and Gift Shop: As a girl I loved abnormal trinkets. Started with eccentric fishing tackles; worked my way up to the beasts themselves.
The gift shop reminded me of myself: a carefully crafted collection of oddments; handbuilt; bloated for intrigue. The mom of the mom-and-pop shop stood tentatively behind the counter, eyeing me over a limp magazine. Beside her towered an amalgamated sasquatch-yeti statue, one plastic pec of either wild man. Eventually, she quit pretending to browse the dull catalogue and licked her lips, reptilian.
*All conversations paraphrased to best of ability:
“Are you the woman who bought the cabin outside Beartrap?”
“That’s right.” I did not care much for her question; I was meant to be the one who asked.
“The SOLD sign did us a better doozy than ravaged cowpens ever do.” It might have been a mocking excitement on her face or genuine interest. Can never tell. “You’ve been asking around, hm? Monster collector—or hunter, or somethin?”
“I prefer I’m a cryptozoologist. I study, I don’t kill. How much for that concoction?” I pointed to the statue.
She recoiled in humoured shock. “You want to buy Betsy?”
Betsy was a name better fit for a mutilated cow. “You can keep the head.”
Two weeks’ groceries and a hatchet job later, the grafted plastic was thudding on the car roof like a Christmas tree, along with the mottled buoy, and an industrial stapler on the seat.
Entry 3, 30 May 2025, Cabin: I feel the need to mention the cabin directly. It may one day itself become an area of interest. Yes, I made my first discovery before visiting my home for the research period. The cabin writing retreat is not uncommon for me; I believe I have spent more time retreating than settled.
Writing this entry, well, really before I became acutely aware of the slick, mucusy scent of the squid—enthralled by what might be inside. Limp vitals, the feel and heft of the thing without its irrational, finicky impulses. The net lay sprawled in the corner beside bottles of formaldehyde, the squid like a pet hoping it was forgotten.
It awoke when I brought the hatchet down, and dispersed as something would when struck with lightning, its amorphous form flashing over my shadow on the log walls. It clung to the hatchet and took its shape, wriggling to each side of the turning blade. I set the weapon down, walked out to the woodshed.
It could not morph in time with the chainsaw.
Entry 4, 9 June 2025, Route 139: Twenty minutes past Cephalo Pond, a lizard-owl hooted hissed.
I had a mental list of specimens, sizes, qualities, and the owl was unsatisfactory. I crossbowed it for comparative studies: the reptile avian mollusc’s innards, and its.
Entry 5, 21 June 2025, Bagg’s Lake: The stumpy critter relaxed on the laketop, did not attack until I lodged the oil-stained hatchet into its head. It had no pate, but otherwise had the beak, snarl, and beady eyes of a kappa. The platypus body floundered and leapt to shore, swatting at the air. When it collapsed, I raised it by its head. Its beak was furled into a grin.
It oddly comforted me, yet I felt disturbed. For what reason, I am still unaware.
Entry 6, 2 July 2025, Beartrap: After numerous nights, I learned why the village was called Beartrap. A creature lumbered as a bear, a great brown body on eight arachnoid legs. It screeched like the devil and took ten shots to drop. The saltbox houses dotting the forestside must have counted their people for murder. Returning to the car, I reused the ropes from Betsy. Stolen Scavenged cowpen wire still lay in the backseat.
Entry 6 (Continued), Cabin: The bone saw glinted in the lamplight, a difficult procedure. I didn’t sleep until its hide was skinned clean. I left the floorboards to scrub for the morning.
Entry 7, 16 July 2025, Cabin: A backpacker shambled up the road. I recognized him from town, where I had prodded the right points for rumours by sliding a double-double across the curb where he sat.
I left the study—a small bedroom, though I slept only on the chesterfield—rubbing my incomplete mate down its matted, greasy fur. The bear skin hung like a loose coat over Betsy’s plastic, the squid’s black tentacles branching in triumphal arches from wiring all over. Its wide, webbed feet belonged to the kappapus. Flies and larvae had begun to infest the yellowed locks, a harsh andwonderful musk filling the room. Through the window, half-covered by the bare, leaning mattress, a slice of evening funnelled into the final missing piece: the empty head.
I had considered the rhombus cavity of the squid, the kappa-billed platypus head, even the shrunken, fork-tongued owl face that decayed in the closet. Nothing worked; the anomalous orifices only made the void I felt more apparent to me.
I creaked open the front door, stepping onto the stoop. The same protuberance-like trees moved me. I had timed it correctly, and the backpacker slogged directly across from the driveway. He glanced over, caught sight of me dumping an overfilled garbage bag, and shouted.
“Hey! I know you! Would you spare a cup of tea?”
I lowered the garbage lid and smiled. “Help yourself.”
The man entered the cabin behind me. He seemed fascinated by my doodads, made small talk as I lit the kettle. In the dim living room, his broad shoulders were like those of the bear, but his head was more riveting. More right. The hatchet sat beside the kettle: black, red, dulled.
Perhaps I had been looking in the wrong place. Perhaps the final creature was human.
D.S. Burton is a horror and weird fiction writer studying creative writing at the University of New Brunswick. His fiction appears or is forthcoming in Night Shades, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, and elsewhere. Learn more at dsburton.com
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