It was just before dawn on Washington Island. On this fall morning the sudden drop in temperature after last night’s cold front had made the air colder than the water. Towering mists enveloped the Island. Amand Ilstadt knew that as the sun rose it would burn away the heavy fog, but for the moment it was difficult to see beyond the edge of his pastures to the road.
Little things like this were of no concern to Amand. He had a farm to run and animals to care for. Amand had grown up on the Island, and this had been his parents’ farm, and his grandparents’ before that. The rhythms of farming life were deeply embedded. He was not one to bide his time with a second cup of coffee.
First on his list of things to do was to take a look at that wobbly gate on the eastern end of the paddock near the woods. His big Angus cattle had a talent for finding weaknesses in a fence line, and although the fence itself was electric, the gates were mere wood—too easy for his curious and wandering herd to push and break through.
Even though it was still dark, he made his way to the shed for his tools and then headed out to the paddock wearing a headlamp, miner-style, to light his way. He sang to himself as he crossed the pasture, the rhythmic sound of a passing freighter’s foghorn adding to the music.
Amand was a born singer. As a little boy he had sung while he milked the cows, sung as he walked to school, sung himself to sleep at night. Blessed with a rich baritone as an adult, the habit had remained with him, and he sang almost all day long on the farm. His wife always knew where he was by the sound of his voice, the music rising from the pastures, or the barn, or the work shed. Amand’s singing had made him something of a local celebrity, and when, occasionally, a tourist commented on the seemingly random sound of singing out in the countryside, locals would just smile and say, with a certain amount of pride, “Oh that’s just Amand. He sings all day.”
The fog made everything seem alien and disconnected, and even though he knew every blade of grass on his place, Amand was finding it difficult to tell exactly where he was. He knew, though, if he just kept moving he would eventually reach the fence, and then he could make his way along it until he found the gate. Unconsciously, his voice rose as he walked, and soon he was singing lustily. He had just reached the second verse of “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” when a sound came out of the fog that stopped his voice and froze his heart. It was the sound of a man screaming in abject terror.
“HEY!” yelled Amand. “Who’s there? Where are you?” The scream came again, longer this time, filled with agony, and seemingly straight ahead of him. In a rapid sequence of thoughts, Amand considered what to do. How could he help this man? Should he run to him? Or go for help? No. This was too urgent to delay.
Dropping his tools, he called out, “I’m coming! Hold on! Try to let me know where you are!” As he ran toward the sound, Amand wished he had his gun. And his phone. There was one more bloodcurdling scream. And then there was silence.
Finding the gate, Amand opened it and headed into the woods. Desperately, he called out, searching where he thought the sound had come from, expecting that at any moment he would come upon the bleeding victim—or body. But as much as he called, he heard no answer, and he soon realized that he would have to give up and call for help. Heartsick, visualizing the suffering that could be going on only steps away, he called out words of encouragement, promising to return, and ran back through the fog toward the house.
By the time the emergency vehicles arrived, the sun was starting to rise, and although the fog was still thick, there was at least light. Amand had continued to comb through the woods, calling as he searched. Soon the rescuers were calling and searching, too. As the day broke and the fog lifted, the teams were methodically sectioning off the woods, and covering it foot by foot. The search went on until nearly six o’clock that evening. They never found anyone.
Bill Yahr, the Police Chief, had been briefly tempted to tease Amand that he’d been hearing things. But the look on Amand’s face told him that whatever he had heard had not been his imagination.
There was almost no crime on Washington Island, and no animals dangerous to humans. If it had been someone seriously injured, no doubt they would hear about it, and sooner rather than later. No one could hide something like that for long on the Island. More likely, Bill supposed, it was one of the kids playing a joke. But he had to admit to himself, four-thirty in the morning was a strange time for a teenager to be out pulling pranks.