Anita had spent over a year preparing the list, and she had frequently disappeared on research trips. When she did come home, she was always extremely talkative, if disorganized. I’d begun to worry, and had even been in contact with psychologists about the possibility of something like schizophrenia. But Anita had always seemed her same cheerful self–just obsessed with a postage stamp of the rural countryside hours north that was uninhabited and unloved.

“Did you know,” she told me one day, brushing in the door with an armful of papers xeroxed at a library a hundred miles away, “that the state government has systematically cut off all roads to the Tamarack since 1965? The only way to get there now is by hiking or canoeing down the Ontonagon.”

“Anita,” I said. “It’s just a patch of land that nobody cares about. Really.”

“It is so much more than that,” she said. Slapping her new files down on the old oak table in the dining room, she pulled out a copy of an old newspaper clipping: COPPER BOULDER REMOVED: SECOND LARGEST AFTER THE ONTONAGON BOULDER. Then, after that, another: TAMARACK FARMERS BLAME LOCAL YOUTHS FOR “DEVIL’S NIGHT:” THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS IN DAMAGE.

“What am I supposed to be seeing?” I said.

“That was the start,” Anita replied proudly. “That first article and that second article? They were from the paper in Ironwood, the Daily Globe, so the articles are a few days late. This disturbance, Devil’s Night? It happened the day after they removed that copper boulder.”

“Good for them?” I said.

“You’re not listening!” Anita cried. “I am serving you proof positive of paranormal activity near Grandma and Grandpa’s old farm, and you’re just sitting there like it’s no big deal.”

“Is it?”

“Mark my words, there is something there,” Anita said, flashing her report. “And I’m going to find out how to document it safely.”

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