FRANCIS BRANDYWINE
Quetico Park, Canada. Francis Brandywine’s family, had been frequent campers to this pristine, isolated camping park. Until that one, unfortunate night. When Francis, young reckless raven haired Francis of the mere age of seventeen, had waited till her parents were deep in their slumber. Once certain of this, she strode from their campsite with her journal in hand, through forests of thin evergreens, to the shore of one particular lake. Having planned to row in the family rowboat to the centre of the lake, rumored to be three hundred feet, to stare in awe at the star soaked night skies, and to write in her journal. This journal is the only reason the happenings of that eventful night, told in Francis’ hurriedly jotted down and terrifying words, are known to this day.
She reached the shore in her haste, breaking through the thin forest that outlined the edge of water and land. Gently eased the rowboat into the inky dark expanse of water, water so clean you could drink it straight from the lake. Rowing further and further from the shore and into the night. She finally chose a distance, some twenty minutes or so from shore, and set the two oars down. Laying down on the row boat's floor, she calmly gazed at the glistening sky, writing in her journal. Her breathing and heart beat were synced, both slow and steady, and her thoughts wondered of many things in a content revery. That is when, she heard it. The first knock.
It was short, but loud enough, Francis sat up in bewilderment. Not afraid, yet. Looking over the side of the boat, expecting to see a rock, a log maybe even having drifted to shore. But found nothing of the sort. In fact she saw nothing at all, except the dark, calm waters. She waited for another knock. None came. Tossing aside the sound as a figment of her own imagination, she lay back down. Silence consumed the air. Another knock, she placed, came from under the rowboat. Louder, sharper. Francis was confused, even just slightly concerned. She checked to see if the boat had reached the shore or if perhaps it were some animal. She found the boat was still, gently swaying in the centre of the lake. Once again, she dismissed the sound. But again, just like before, when Francis had assumed the noise was her imagination, as the silence began to stretch out like a rubberband, there was another knock.
This knock was as loud as Francis’ now thrumming heartbeat and her quickened breathing. Making up her mind to head back to land, she grabbed the oars, and with all her strength she paddled as hard as she could. Through the calm waters, she rowed. And rowed and paddled and rowed. And she got no where, though the rowboat should have made quick progress on this gentle night, almost as if something were holding the boat in place. And this made her use one of the oars, a questionable decision, in a pointless attempt to poke at anything that could be under the boat and holding it in place. A strand of weed, a rock, a large hand… all thoughts which trembled through Francis Brandywine’s mind. She poked and prodded. Something, forceful and silent, yanked the oar into the deep, freezing waters.
She was knocked backwards into the boat, hitting the other oar as it followed suit and sunk like the Titanic.
Now, she was scared. She cried. No, terrified. And she didn’t cry, she sobbed. A downpour of salty frustration and hundreds of droplets of petrifiedness. All that Francis was able to do was wait for the sunrise and for help and could only sob waterfalls more as the knocks went through the night.
The boat drifted to shore, the next morning. With the frantic jottings of Francis Brandywine, in her journal. A journal which was opened to the final page. A page which was damp and in writing that looked like it was hastily written with a muddy finger. It read:
I DID KNOCK FIRST.
Francis couldn’t tell us what happened that night. Because Francis Brandywine, was never found in the boat, or the forest. Francis Brandywine, was NEVER seen again.