He grunted as he levered the driftwood logs away from the opening in the cliff wall. The entrance was slick with black slime, and a dank odour filled his nostrils as he stepped inside. He took the big torch from his pocket and flicked it on, the beam revealing damp, stone walls and a wet, gooey, dirt floor. Stepping carefully, he ducked his head and moved slowly along the narrow passage, pausing every few steps to listen and wipe the sweat from his eyes.

The cave was warm, and the further he went the smell became more pungent. The passage turned suddenly, dead-ending in a shoulder-high space about the size of an automobile. Ithmus shone the light around slowly, freezing when the beam picked out the pile of small bones on the floor. He squatted down and studied them closely, stirring the pile with the end of the flashlight. Rabbit.

Moving the light from side to side, he saw the dark stains on the packed earth, and a tuft of beige fur. He stood quickly and flashed the light up to the ceiling. In the corner, a manhole sized opening, the entrance running with brackish black slime, reflected in the light's beam. It's been here recently, he thought, an ice-cold shiver tweaking his spine.

Distraught, Ithmus backed quickly out of the small cell and fled back down the tunnel, replacing the logs firmly before hurrying down the shore toward the lodge.

******

Cameron Cragmore's body twisted slowly on the end of the rope fastened to the ceiling beam of his study. Below him, on the huge, leather-topped desk, lay a single sheet of parchment containing the agonizing expression of his final words.

It was a rambling, incoherent statement covering the failed attempts of his biological experiments and the culminating horror of what transpired. There was a long passage directed to his son Richard, with a plea for forgiveness for allowing a zealous ego to tinker with, what was described as, God's domain.

In clearer language, Cameron decreed that the lodge and property be sold, with the proviso that there be no development allowed, and that Ithmus Gallow remain as permanent caretaker. With no trace of Richard Cragmore to be found, and no other relatives near enough, through blood or interest, Cameron's death was ruled a suicide, and the police file was designated closed, pending further information on the son.

In a separate, sealed envelope, Ithmus received instructions to permit no one into the basement, and to personally clean out and destroy all traces of the laboratory.

Biochemistry had been a lifelong pursuit of Cameron's. Following the paths as far back as the Roman Galen on up through the 1600s, when William Harvey, an English physician whose pioneering insights into the circulatory system, through experiments with worms, insects, fish and frogs, sparked the significant increase of animal experimentation that took place in the 1800s.

At one point, Cameron, and the myriad other researchers in the United States alone, used over 18 million animals a year in their experiments. By the nineties, opposition to these practices had the numbers reduced by approximately a third, only to be replaced by specially bred rats and mice.

Cameron retreated with his experiments to a laboratory he'd constructed on a remote piece of property near Glass Lake, and there, continued to search for his golden fleece—a cross-breeding formula between animal and plant life.

At age eighteen, Richard became involved with his father's obsession, and over the next several years, the two men worked day and night testing, failing, and testing again, each new theory they devised. Frustration produced more radical theories and experiments, consuming more and more of their time, and on one inconvenient but necessary trip across the lake for supplies, they hired a young, local man to tend the property and look after meals and the necessary inventory.

His name was Ithmus Gallow. He couldn't have been happier, and being left to his own devices, Ithmus created his own schedule. A conscientious lad, he performed his duties admirably, keeping the grounds and main lodge in good repair, servicing all the utilities when necessary, and performing the domestic chores for which the Cragmores seemingly had no time.

Ithmus rarely saw the two men except for the occasional meal, or to get a list of supplies from the town across the lake. As time passed, he saw less and less of Richard, only Cragmore senior would emerge from their basement laboratory to shower and change clothes before hurrying back downstairs, locking the big basement door behind him.

One evening, near the end of his first year of service, Cameron Cragmore stumbled up from the basement looking pale and shaken. He locked the door and hurried to his study, returning with a note for Ithmus. He wanted him to go immediately to the town and purchase the items on the list. When Ithmus pointed out that nothing would be open so late, Cameron flew into a rage, ordering him to do as he was told or to get out and stay out. Ithmus quickly obeyed, grabbing his coat and a lantern and hurrying down to the dock.

It was the last time he would see Cameron Cragmore—alive.

Very quickly, the estate agents found a buyer for the Cragmore property. A resort management company, eager to have such a potentially profitable site in their repertoire, happily paid the asking price, and gladly kept Ithmus on as caretaker/watchdog.

Before the principles came to view their purchase and start the inevitable renovations, Ithmus set about following his letter's instructions, and cleaned out the laboratory. It was a harrowing task, wrought with the horror of the things he discovered.

The extent of the father and son's experiments was meticulously recorded in a series of journals, which Ithmus read with revulsion and fascination. In the last journal, penned in a shaky hand just before he killed himself, Cameron recorded what had become Richard's fate. He had injected himself with their latest serum in an act of frustrated determination, and had begun, in Cameron's final words, a ghastly transformation.