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The strange and utterly paranormal history of Goodbye, New Mexico could fill a encyclopedia. At least, I considered it so. Dean and the others in the Paranormal Hunters Society agreed with me and everyone else that the small town possessed quirky oddities and abnormal stories.

Much like every other isolated desert town along Route 66, Goodbye was mostly abandoned, save for a dwindling population of less than two-hundred souls (not counting wild animals). This is compared to its heyday in the 1950s and 1960s, when Goodbye topped with a population of around 2,000-plus citizens. The American Dream in the American Southwest, they called it.

Nowadays, current residents mostly comprised of retired elderly folks waiting for the end, if not extended family. The rest of the town was made up of middle-aged mammals trapped by their own past nostalgia of how things used to be, as well as those in their late teens/early twenties with no other prospects of the future. Like I said though, Goodbye's population had been dwindling. Plenty cited economic opportunities as a reason for leaving, but what made Goodbye stand out from other dying towns were the peculiar stories former residents discussed. A few ghost stories, several strange sightings of strange creatures, a UFO or two, plenty of paranormal shit that belonged in the X-Files than a ghost town in the making.

One such former resident came to the Society's office one afternoon. Born and raised into a large romp of river otters, Chance Whittier's family practically grew up along Route 66. With a loving wife and two pups already graduated from college, as well as a successful used car shop in Nueva Fe, one wouldn't expect him to carry any baggage. Like all Goodbye residents though, he'd seen some things. It all revolves around his former childhood home.

To make a long story short, Chance's father...wasn't the best parent. Favoring the stick way more than a carrot, the otter was merely old-fashioned on some days while emotionally turbulent, even violent on others. Especially after the U.S. Interstate led to Route 66's decline, to the point nobody even recognized the bitter otter anymore. One of many reasons that Chance and his siblings left. In fact, their father's funeral counted as the only time his brothers and sisters bothered returning to town after so many years away. Painful memories and all. Unfortunately, Chance found himself stuck as the executor of Dad's estate, and nobody else wanted the burden.

Anyway, the reason Chance called us up is because something came up. Ever since he started cleaning out the family home of things either to be kept as heirlooms or sold off/thrown away, the middle-aged otter had noticed strange things happening. Typical occurrences such as feeling like you're not alone. On the second day though, Chance thought he heard footsteps on the second floor of the old house. By the end of that same day, he also discovered the basement door--a place nobody, not even his dead father's equally deceased wife from years back was allowed to ever enter--completely wide open.

Chance remained in denial, figuring it was a faulty lock, and started cleaning out the basement. As day turned to dusk though, the older otter swore he started hearing voices. One of which included his father's the instant he closed the door, growling that he wasn't allowed in.

"I swear to Christ Almighty I wasn't imagining it!" He insisted to us. "That house is evil, and I know I'm not crazy. You gotta believe me!"

Believe him, we did. At least, I did while Dean came alongside me for the journey, being the usual skeptic. He did voice intrigue on going to Goodbye though, as like me and the rest of the other P.H.S. members, we were fascinated by the folkloric small town. The Mexican wolf greatly loved his niche history and urban legends.

When we arrived in Goodbye, New Mexico, neither of us were surprised by the decay and crawling desert beginning to reclaim the town.

"You go check out the basement," he told me. "I'll get the equipment ready."

The interior of the Whittaker's childhood home came down to two words: 'vacant' and 'stoic', of life, of memories, of dustless carpeting as well as filled with stains on the wall. Shadows of framed photos and dents where furniture used to be, while several boxes had been left half-packaged of junk in the corner. Chance didn't finish moving everything out yet.

As howling desert wind whistled beyond the outer walls, I ventured down to the basement, at the bottom of a staircase under the ones going to the second story. At the last step, I opened the door without much thought, staring into inky pitch black. The basement had been outfitted during the beginning of the Cold War, with the previous owner figuring that the Soviet Union would drop a nuke on Goodbye of all places. Instead, it remained a tomb of failed businesses and neglected hardware tools.

After turning the switch on and off with no results, I groaned. "Dammit."

My paw reached for my phone, intent on using the flashlight feature, when I stopped to hear footsteps overhead. I groaned again at being jumpy. I figured it had to be Dean getting the equipment and bringing it into the main living room.

I glanced back up to stare in the darkness, having a lurking, instinctual feeling. Then, it happened. A pair of blinking yellow eyes narrowed in my direction, deep in the back of the room. My mouth grew dry as I stared directly at the two orbs. Without even thinking, I clicked the flashlight app on, expecting to see a decomposed otter.

Nothing. My spotlight stabbed into the pitch black, revealing only a dusting basement filled with cardboard boxes, and my flashlight's beam reflecting from a wall of wrenches. I let out a sigh of relief.

The instant I turned off the flashlight though, the eyes reappeared. Only, they were closer.

I slammed that motherfucker shut and bolted up the steps like a frantic monkey.