State police recovered the enclosed journal a few miles from the murder scene and thirty minutes from the station near Timberdoodle trail. They have not publicly connected it to the crime, but staties filed it into evidence. Please advise.

Entry 1:

Found a dead fox only 30 feet from camp, its entrails spilled on melted snow. Must’ve caught scent of the food I’d left out.

[Did I leave any food out? I’d fried several strips of Farmer’s Fresh Bacon, but can’t remember if that was last night or the night previous.]

Vowed to be more careful with food. Stupid mistakes get you killed. Even found scabs on my ankle – still can’t really tell what it is. The skin’s red and swollen but doesn’t hurt to touch. No impact on walking or any other motor functions – shouldn’t be of any real concern.

The disemboweled fox blocked the exit to camp on the path that winds around the boulders and away from the Cartesian forest. Had to clear the carcass out of the way. Got a branch and used it like a shovel—hoisted the corpse in the air, minded the ice, found a smooth uncovered 4×4 plot of dirt and grass a few hundred yards from camp. Sun lit up through the canopy like light pouring through a cathedral window onto an open casket. Dew dripped from the tips of frozen branches and tickled the ground: tap tap tap.

Took a fist-sized rock and dug a shallow grave down to my wrists. It was all the earth would allow. I lowered the body inside and pushed the pile of dirt over it. I had all but ran out of food from my last excursion, but was not about to risk illness with a dead animal.

Said a few words of remembrance – reflected on the struggle for life, survival of the fittest, etc. The speech was rousing / impressive but I don’t remember a word of it now, or else would have rewritten it verbatim.

[Not sure if I spoke anything aloud or just thought of it all in my head. I read in the latest Time Magazine that the brain cannot distinguish between real time occurrence and post-hoc recall, or so a study shows.]

After the business with the fox, I crawled back to camp and laid in my tent for over 20 mins mulling over the whole ordeal. Tried to break the ice in the bucket. Bashed it repeatedly without any promising results. Figured that it’d thaw enough by sunrise to get a pot of boiling water rolling, and then could dunk my socks and remove the filth caked to them. They still retain the stink of unwashed feet—like moldy jam and sweat. Remove socks when wet, not shortly after, but immediately.

QUESTION: How’d it die? Did it catch my scent, climb the hill, and split its stomach on a jagged rock? Did something kill it and leave it to die, got bored with its meal, or just killed it for the sick pleasure?

Doesn’t help being alone while parsing such questions. Can only write by the light of the moon these days.

Remain humble esp. when confronting the unknown.

Won’t spend much longer pondering the situation. There’s blood on the side of my hand from burying its body. Going to wash it in the stream 1 mile down the path, listen to the world around me: squirrels’ll bicker b/c I’ll be too close to their tree/home; birds’ll dart around above to find somewhere warmer—a tree’ll moan and crack, shedding one of its limbs and a sheet of snow. There won’t be anyone for miles.

TO-DO:

Need more food; supplies are low.

Need to make double-sure that I’ve cleaned up after myself at night.

Wash hands in the stream even when I’m too tired.

Conduct a second sweep of the path that leads out of the camp.

Need to devise a way to keep water from turning into a solid block of ice overnight.

Entry 2:

Found an actual working wrist-watch so waking has been much easier: 2:10 AM in the crisp air at God’s hour: the trees hold their breath and nothing dares break the perfect stillness ‘neath the stars [WHITMAN YES].

Spring’s rounding the corner and so a change is sweeping through. It’s probably warm enough now to sleep into the coldest nethers of the night but can never be too careful. I’ll continue rising early to keep the blood pumping through the veins/arteries and not let the pipes freeze. I have awoken encased in a sleeping bag, ice crawling across my chest like a straight jacket, immobile and faltering pulse etc. Enough to adopt a nocturnal lifestyle, ensure that I’m safe and surviving.

I’ve spent several hours peeping in the bushes outside a rich cabin getaway, eavesdropping on a husband&wife – they’ve been discussing travel plans south. Said they’d be gone for the next week at least. It’s the best chance I’ve had in months.

But couldn’t just go trudging up to the front door like a belligerent freeloader. I had to prep.

Lit the bunsen burner and did 72 laps [counted each one] around the perimeter of camp to get the liquids moving from toes to cranium, and back and forth.

Strapped a screwdriver to my hip, and layered up—long underwear, 4 pairs of soleless socks [one tied around the neck], night-sky pajama bottoms, Highland boots, extra hoodie, ski jacket, emergency hand/feet warmers, beanie, gloves, two pairs of boxer briefs, and what was left of the jerky I’d saved. Felt like a marshmallow man underneath it all. Imagined rolling across the ground like a rock collecting moss, tumbling and hurtling down a hillside in an anonymous plot of land. While strapping up, I noticed an unsightly pelt of hair on the backside of my hand. At least it could help insulate the heat.

Be grateful for what you have.

Set off with a dull pain in my lower back [age is outrunning experience].

The boulders had become slick with ice. Butt-crawled most of the descent. Worked my way down the incline and onto flatter land.

Checked the watch: a brisk 60 mins had already passed.

Had to hurry—the moon hung like a flickering and dying lamp, a patchwork of early morning clouds passing over, energy waning and waxing with it; and by the time I arrived, the sky was placid as a lake. Body heat was up from the jog, so I returned the beanie to the pack. Flicked up my hood, a lone bead of sweat snaking between my eyes. Cool air rushed in, tickled the beard, made my eyes water.

I crouched—waited 20 min, peering down the winding, forested road leading to the garage door. Waited for strange shapes to resolve themselves into bushes, trees, and snow piles. Caught a few phantoms in the peripherals, and a closer look revealed them for what they were – just a bit of photopsia and faint reflections of the moon. Noticed that husband&wife had left their BMW parked in the driveway, encased in ice, but I immediately dashed the thought of carjacking.

Breathing slowed—waited til silence remained constant for several minutes [counted prime numbers to 167, then backwards from 31]. Got to work.

Jammed the screwdriver into the back doorknob. Jiggled but it wouldn’t give.

Got frustrated/careless and tried to take the damn thing off its hinges. Refocused and self-corrected.

Never lose your cool esp. during a break-in.

Inserted the slot-head at a 45 deg. angle, rotated the knob to the left. It clicked. I turned it to the right and the door swung inside the living room.

Stench of pine-scent and lemon assaulted the nostrils right away. The place had been cleaned within the past 24 hrs. Someone else had a key and access to the premises.

I couldn’t waste any more time.

I found the pantry and took the non-perishables on the shelf: black beans, beef chili, “homegrown” corn, green peas, sausage gravy, tomato sauce, pan noodles, french onion soup, Cape Cod chips, crunchy peanut butter, paper towels, silverware, a painted plate [for the collection], and an oven mitt.

Checked the fridge. Found a dozen eggs—not sure how long they’d been there or if they were far past their expiration date [nothing on the carton], so I took half of them for frying.

I ventured into the bathroom and found several rolls of toilet paper. Stuffed the only two that would fit in the pack, now heavy. Quite heavy. Set it on the bathmat.

Caught sight of the shower curtain. It’d been pulled closed. I eased it open, half-expecting that something hidden inside waited to pounce on me.

Empty—of course.

Then I had a short-lived debate:

Yes

No

Yes. Your feet are filthy. Your hands, too.

Almost black!

Gave into temptation so I shed my clothes and stepped inside. Grappled with the curtain and steadied myself on the slick floor.

The water spat forth as soon as I touched the knob.

It stung and I howled—jumped away from the stream of boiling water. Amazed that it had been hot so immediately. I eased myself back into it: first a foot, then a leg, then arms, stomach, and head. It was numbing. I laid my head against the tile, let the steam rise all around, watched torrents of dirt/excrement rinse off of my body. Lost all control and peed into the drain; it was tinged red with blood.

But I hardly acknowledged it, and almost fell asleep anyway. There were tiles with yellow lilies painted on the porcelain and they formed a complete portrait around the half-moon of the shower; I followed the patterns for a time and forgot about myself, the winter, etc.

Heard a creak in the floorboards and my body jolted to attention. I shut it off, scrambled out.

I pulled one foot out of the steam and landed on the shag bathmat. I drew the rest of my body out of the shower and stretched my limbs.

Saw a figure at the door, swallowed in shadow – a misshapen savage. It must have been waiting the whole time to slit my throat.

Heart dropped to my stomach. Half-digested food threatened to spoil the floor.

I held up my hands in pathetic self-defense, and I yelped. Saw the figure shrink, aping my movement.

Just a reflection: a body-sized mirror bolted to the back of the door.

Flushed hot with embarrassment, I got dressed, unable to look myself in the face. I hadn’t seen myself in three years and I wasn’t about to start then. I packed my things and ran for the door.

It was an important lesson in not wasting time, especially for an unnecessary shower.

But I had to stop for one last thing: the bookshelf. That was a non-negotiable. I nabbed a few for the collection: book called Station Eleven, the latest Dean Koontz, and ah! the holy grail—a copy of Ulysses [my second one!], this edition with Joyce sporting an eyepatch for his glaucoma: leeched, rugged and life-worn.

Made for the door after these last few luxuries but was stopped again. All these delays! What sloppy work.

There was a note resting on the breakfast bar that I’d sworn hadn’t been there before:

DEAR HERMIT,

Please don’t break in again. Leave us a list of what you need and we’ll be happy to provide it for you.

Best,

Mr. and Mrs. Linderman

I had the distinct feeling of being watched—dropped the note like it was poisoned and rushed for the exit, peering over my shoulder, desperate to spot my pursuers.

Forgot to even close the door and couldn’t shake that sick feeling until I was home again, panting and exhausted. The sun was cresting the horizon and as soon as I laid my body on the floor of the tent, I fell asleep.

I woke, began writing, and prepped the eggs for dinner.

TO DO:

Never go near the husband&wife cabin again. Triple underline.