Well, around where I live (sort of), if you delve into a specific part of this isolated wood a considerable distance from where I live or somewhere near there, you'll supposedly find an archaic wooden box with a rusted but sturdy lock wedged deep into a part of the ground surrounded by peculiar-looking boulders, adjacent to a seemingly bottomless hole, its diameter hardly wider than your arm, or something like that.

I believe that, legend has it, there was some settler of British North America by the name Thomas (Can't remembered his last name :/), who made a living off fishing or something similar, as the southeastern coast of what is now New Brunswick was heavily populated with many fish, especially lobsters. Perhaps not as lucrative as his old profession, for I believe, if my memory is not incorrect, rumour had it he used to be a sailor, constantly ferrying people from Europe to settle the vast but unsettled lands of what is now Canada.

Thomas had to quit this job after he and his crew narrowly but with great expense escaped a pirate raid. I'm quite certain of this part of the legend, but I could be wrong. Anyway, the cost was the loss of many crew members, passengers, and possessions alike, and for Thomas specifically, his right arm was ripped from his socket (IIRC). Nobody knew how this man, one of the three(?) survivors of the pirate attack, had escaped the ordeal, or even how he managed to survive hundreds of miles of cold ocean water; he wouldn't say; I'm really sorry, I can't remember the details here, and I'm pretty sure there was something of mild importance here. But anyway, the other two survivors said nothing about the experience either; one died of hypothermia (I think) shortly after he washed on the shores of what is now Halifax, and the other survivor lapsed into a catatonic state, neglecting the need to eat, sleep, and communicate, finally succumbing to death after his adopted caretakers finally gave up in their pursuit of curing him due to the expenses on their part. Wait, no, I might have gotten that part wrong. Maybe he just went crazy or something, but basically, he died of some mental illness, possibly due to some post-traumatic stress.

But I digress once again. Thomas soon moved to what is now Saint John for economic opportunity, I think. And for years he lived this life, welcoming new arrivals from Britain, catching his meals from the Fundy Bay, trading his fish with fellow settlers and the natives alike for bread, meat, and furs. He owned a quaint shack on the outskirts of the forming town; the other pioneers dismissed this baffling behaviour as the consequences of surviving such a traumatic experience as he did, and allowed him his solitude and his quiet, reserved, but seemingly eccentric personality, though I could be wrong, and he may have been a bit more social than how I remember it. No relics of his past life as a sailor remained after the incident, so he had to start his life anew, which luckily boded well for the great opportunity this new land offered.

But then something strange occurred. A few people, mostly acquaintances or co-workers of his, if memory serves me right, stated that Thomas' already strange behaviour had reached an apical point that day. Though he always talked and whistled quietly to himself as he fished (it was a tedious occupation), the whispers sounded more panicked, I think. His shoulders hunched much like they did when he first arrived, as they had slowly began to relax as uneventful years accumulated, or at least, I think he had some form of a timid posture when he first washed up. And all this began at the most spontaneous of instances, during his work day, after he returned from his daily routine of walking on the soft sand of Fundy during the low tide and wading the shores further south, this much I'm certain. Then, abruptly, Thomas fled his shaded workspace, looking as if he clutched something extremely valuable to his chest, to the northwestern forests where no one dared venture for a multitude of reasons. At least, I think they had a few reasons not to. Bears, getting lost, still feared the natives, but I could be erroneous here.

Hitherto, nobody really knows for certain whether this old, buried box was really the thing that sent the mysterious fisherman into a panicked dementia, of this I know. But there are some controversial things that the locals will doubtlessly agree on, though tourists coming to see the tides of Fundy Bay or basically anyone who did not grow up around southern New Brunswick will vociferously disagree with such folk tales. The rocks surrounding the box couldn't possibly be naturally placed, as they were arranged in such a way as to prevent excavating the odd chest. I'm quite certain that the remains of Thomas were never found, and the thing that would send most erudite people into a sophisticated tantrum is that, sometimes, according to myth, on a placid, moonless night, one can hear the shifting of dirt and scratching noises across stone underneath the ground they stand on.