|buy prints of select halfsquatch photographs at etsy or dawanda. (prints of all photographs are available upon request)
Having successfully snuck into the Thompson’s private suite at the lodge, Paula examined the cluster of framed photographs on the bureau in Tucky and Andrea Thompson’s bedroom. Andrea covered in flour, kneading dough and scowling; another of her smiling brightly in front of a cinnamon bun the size of a monster truck tire. There was a high school portrait of Dave – his recent graduation picture — unsmiling and with is hair hanging in his face. Tucky and Andrea somewhere in Europe – her hair was long, Paula noticed, and Tucky’s face was fresh and devoid of lines. A shot of an elderly couple outfitted in lederhosen and dirndls. A posed family photo, several years old, taken by the fireplace she recognized from the lodge’s lobby. One of Tucky and Stew with a row of shooters lined up in front of them. Finally, one of Tucky and another man standing at the edge of a lake, their arms coiled around each other’s necks, wearing Wayfarers and grinning. Paula picked up the photograph and dusted the glass with the hem of her shirt. Both men wore T-shirts emblazoned with an image of the Sasquatch (the famous still from the Patterson footage that was eventually revealed to be a hoax) and the word BELIEVE!
That must be him, Paula thought. Jeremy mentioned in his original article about the Lady Sasquatch that Tucky Thompson’s old Sasquatch hunting partner dropped by to see his friend’s kill. Jeremy also mentioned that the two believed the Lady Sasquatch could well be the same Sasquatch the pair first encountered near Wolf Lake almost nineteen years earlier. According to the story, Tucky’s friend was named Bob Richman. This got Paula thinking. Rebecca.
There wasn’t much time. Paula tiptoed around the corner to the bedroom next door: Dave’s.
Several framed photo collages hung on the black walls, pictures of tricked-out dolls and surreal street scenes that looked vaguely European. Must be the goth porn. Sketches of big-eyed cartoon characters, photos of Rebecca looking unamused, a painting of her not yet hung, propped up against Dave’s nightstand.
Paula checked the usual spots – at twenty-two, she recalled without difficulty the private places favoured in the secret world of teenagers. A well-thumbed Suicide Girls book filled with pictures of tattooed young women flaunting Bettie Page haircuts and pierced nipples, three condoms, half of a stale, crumbly joint hidden in a box of thumbtacks in the corner of his desk drawer, a stash of black duo-tangs littered with doodles and band stickers. She opened the one on top to the first page of loose-leaf paper and scanned it. “I knew it,” she said out loud. Her voice was a whisper, but the sound of a voice – even her own — startled her just the same. Angsty goth boys like Dave always kept a journal.
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