Chapter 1: An Average Family

The Bouchard family was to all observers a rather normal family. There really did not appear to be anything overly interesting about them. They did own a large home a few miles outside of Anchorage, Alaska. The home sat at the end of its own private drive. There was a fairly large fence around the yard, a few "Posted No Trespassing" signs. The Bouchards were a private family after all. The home was predominately wood, reminiscent of a wooden hunting cabin. They had a large three car garage that fed right into their home.

The home had two floors. Entering through the double front doors would lead to a large open foyer, a large crystal and glass chandelier warmly lit the room. The black and white tile entry way was impressive, but not ostentatious. At the end of the hallway there was a large stairway that led up to the second floor. The upstairs hallway was all blood-wood, the vibrant red hues, in-spite of its rather unfortunate name, set a wonderful contrast in the dark winters. At the top of the stairs was a carpeted recreation room for the Bouchards' children. At the far end of the hallway a large master-suite. Each child had their own room, rather typical for a fifteen year old boy and an eleven year old girl. They also had an extra bedroom for any guests that might visit, though all in all the Bouchards did not much like entertaining people.

On the ground floor they had a large family room. There was a large black leather couch, with ironwood feet, a love seat of the same style, a large black reclining chair. In the family room there was a nice white carpet. The family would often spend cold evening curled up near the stone fireplace and watching television. The modern kitchen would open into a dining area. Everything was perfectly normal for the most part, nothing particular special about this home or its inhabitants.

This suburban dream, really all began with Alexandre Bouchard, the patriarch of the Bouchard family. He was a tall man at 78 inches. He was athletic, spending several hours daily working out in their own personal fitness center. He was square-shouldered and had a stern face. If one were to look him in his fierce blue eyes, it would almost feel as if he was staring into their very soul. He looked like he had a temper of a thousand fires, just ready to boil over, but nothing could be farther from the truth. He was a very kindly man. His children really never wanted for anything. At 37 years of age short cropped hair was still black, but a few strands of gray were starting to show. His nose was crooked, an unfortunate event a few years earlier left the tip of his nose a bit left of center. He also had a small scar running under his left cheek. They could give a bit of frightening appearance to those who were unfamiliar with him.

Many would think it odd that at his age, he was already retired. But he did not exactly have a normal career. He was born on September 3, 1976, in Grenoble, France to Marie O'Malley of Belfast, who had fallen in love with a French Soldier. Alexandre grew up playing hockey, and eventually after he participated in the 1994 Winter Olympics he was drafted to play professionally in the United States. After 16 years he decided to that he had finished and he would stay home to spend time with his family. It was at that time the family up and moved to Anchorage.

Natasha Bouchard, the matriarch of the Bouchard Family was also a recent immigrant to the United States. She met Alexandre in 1994 during the Lillehammer Olympics, she was a Russian Figure Skater at the time. They had continued a long distance relationship, and eventually during the 1998 Olympics Alexandre proposed to her. She was a tall woman, she was about 71 inches. She was very lean, even during her husband's career she maintained her own skating routine and practices. Her hair was a very light blond, nearly white. She had gray eyes, rather uncommon in the United States, but in her home village outside of Pskov they were not uncommon. She would often seem cold and aloof, no doubt a result of her time in the Soviet Athletic Machine, though she cared deeply for both her children. Alexandre and Natasha had led a very quiet life until December 31, 1999. At 23:59 exactly was when John Bouchard was born.

John Bouchard, 15 years later, was very quickly resembling his father. He was already nearly as tall as his father. He had jet black hair, but was still a bit lanky. His eyes were light blue. If one were to look at John and his father next to each other they would easily conclude their relation. He never spent much time at home though. He had both his father and mother's affinity for the ice. He had spent much of his time playing hockey like his father, and had earlier been drafted into a Junior Professional League. That largely left Anastasia Ekaterina Bouchard alone. But all in all they were still an average family of athletes.

It was February 17 at about 7:30. It would still be at least an hour before the sun would rise that day. Anastasia, Ana to her friends—if she had any—should have been by all accounts a normal 10 year old—11 years she corrected herself as she looked in the mirror, as today was her 11th birthday—girl. She could not help, but think that something must have been wrong with her. She continued looking in the mirror, while some of her features were certainly a bit unusual in this part of the world, there was nothing unnatural about them. She had long nearly white blond hair which she had tied back into a ponytail that morning. Her eyes were also a cold, steely gray. She had clearly inherited them from her mother, but the look was certainly enough to be slightly unsettling to the traditional notions of her previous school. It certainly did not help endear her to her peers, nor did it help that she had this kind of presence in any given room. Perhaps it was her height, she would often stand a whole head taller than even the boys her age. But it was something more than that she felt. Her height alone would not have been reason for her parents to have sequestered her away like this. She tried to reason through it once more as she had over the past two years.

It began as any normal school day. Ana's parents had dropped her off at 7:50 on Monday, January 16, 2012, ten minutes before homeroom would begin. She walked in to Miss Aspen's Fourth Grade homeroom. Her classmates had been whispering as she came in, and the room became completely silent, and for a group of eight and nine year olds to suddenly stop talking, something surely had to be amiss. When she walked into the class, she remember thinking that her friends acted with almost primal fear. Surely she could not be the source of this fear? She was just an ordinary child. Everyone had become incredibly aloof and distant from her. But she was never the most popular child in school, so the fact that they all ignored her was not something for too much cause for concern. Other than a few glares there was nothing particularly of note that day. When she had gotten home, she sat down to tell her parents about the events of that day. They seemed to shrug it off and told her to pay the whispers no mind.

The next day is when things seemed to accelerate. Ana had always been subjected to bullying for one reason or another. She was after all different from the rest of the students, but she always usually had one person or another to help her through everything. But this time was different. Everyone the next day went after her. The names were ones she had heard before, freak, gorilla, and other such things. She never could understand the gorilla chide, she may have been tall, but appearances alone, she was almost waif-like, very thin, but she never appeared emaciated, just very petite. The freak insult was nothing new or unusual, her hair and eyes always stood out. But this time it was different, because it was not just a few children, but all of them. The verbal insults continued until that Thursday afternoon. That is when the students became physical.

It had started minimally enough, a few light shoves here, a few pushes there. Things turned significantly darker at recess that day. They were running around the field when the largest boy in the class shoved her hard. Her high center of gravity allowed her to be knocked over with little difficulty. She went crashing head-first into a tree. It opened deep gash above her left eye—she paused a moment looking into the mirror, two years later and the scar was still quite visible—and it began bleeding profusely. That was when things began to get very unusual.

Now in January it was not exactly uncommon for there to be snow in Anchorage, but the day was actually a bit warmer and the weather reports had called only for a light drizzle of rain, not the blizzard that appeared out of nowhere. The snow began coming down heavily almost immediately when Ana had been struck. There was no visibility. Then things got incredibly quiet, all the howling of the blizzard seemed to be turned off. Ana felt nothing at first, then it came to her. Fear, no terror would be more accurate. Fear of what? Ana was not afraid in-fact the storm seemed welcoming to her, like a shield to protect her. Then she felt it, cries pleas, for help, sheer terror was surrounding her, but was it her? She could not tell. Then two words came to her, she was staring at her teacher as blood dripped down from her face when she heard them, or thought she heard them. Freak. Monster. Ana could feel no more as she collapsed into darkness

The next thing she remembered was startling awake in a cold, sterile, hospital bed. Her parents were there, so was her brother. She felt comforted, but her head ached. The doctor told her how she had been injured. When the sudden blizzard appeared out of nowhere she had run into the tree the doctor told her. Lies. She thought to herself. As she would find out from her parents later all the students and the teacher had told the doctor that. Her cut had been more severe than initially expected, it required seven stitches to close up. She would likely have the scar for the rest of her life.

After she had been discharged from the hospital her parents brought her home and sought to find out what really happened. Ana was uncertain how to tell them. The last words still stung fresh in her mind. Monster. She was afraid, but she tried to explain it to them. She told them everything. Her mother held her closely as she told the story, her father just watched her. She collapsed crying after telling her story, she felt that she truly was a monster. Her parents held her closely and brought her to her bed. They just sat there with her for a while before at length her father finally broke the silence.

"Well, Ana." Her father started. "It seems that that school is no longer the right fit for you."

"We should remove her at once from that environment." Her mother said in heavily accented English. She continued, "The problem is though that there are no other schools in the area."

"Then," her father said running his hand through his hair, "we ought to hire her a tutor them."

Ana was puzzled. It almost appeared as if her parents knew what she already thought, that she was responsible for the blizzard. And they seemed to know exactly what the trigger was. Several days had passed, her parents were always with her. They were worried, but it seemed to be so much more than just parental concern over her injuries. Her suspicions were confirmed on the evening of January 29.

Her parents approached her concern clear on their face. "Ana," they both said. "We do not know how, but we think you may have caused that blizzard after you got hurt." Ana looked devastated, tears were beginning to well up in her eyes. Her mother softly cradled her, "Don't worry, it will be alright." She said grasping Ana in a hug so deep that she felt that she would never be let go. Her mother's warmth inspiring her.

Her father continued, choosing his words carefully. "Several years ago, though mercifully you do not remember, there was a fire. It happened when you were furious at something or another." He paused. "I think recent events confirm it. This was not the first time something strange happened around you. Aside from the fire, there were other things." Ana's eyes widened, but she was grateful that her father chose not to elaborate further.

"There is good news, Ange." Ana was worried now, her father never used that nickname for her. It was reserved only for dire news. "Your mother and I, we think we know how to prevent this from happening again." So there is hope, Ana thought to herself. Her mother gripped her even tighter.

"We think that emotion triggers it."

Ana continued looking into the mirror. And so for the past two years Ana had lived with a new mantra. Conceal. Don't feel. Ana could not help but think that it was something out a movie, just without the happy ending. She was content though. It had been difficult for the first while. But the routine of studying with her tutor had been enough to allow her to sink into the new emotionless existence. She felt empty, but this emptiness was better than allowing the monster in her to come out.

But now was not the time for such weighty thoughts. Today was her 11th birthday. She was not happy per-se, as she tried to keep all emotions from her mind, but she was excited. A birthday was still a birthday. And today, Ana felt was going to be a special day.

At about midday a tabby cat sat on the edge of the Bouchard's fence watching the house, with an almost human-like intelligence. No one could have predicted what happened next.