Episode 3 - Devil's Peak
Episode 3 - Devil's Peak
Whispers in the Woods.
Interlude
October 1898
Dead leaves crunched beneath Arthur Thompson’s boots as he climbed the forest hill, legs burning, breath coming hard and fast.
Ahead, Ben moved with unsettling ease, his moccasins whispering over the earth. He turned back, his face shadowed beneath the dappled light of the canopy. “Almost there.”
Arthur stumbled, his trekking pole sinking into gelatinous mud. His knees met the ground with a jolt, damp earth soaking through his trousers. He looked up, chest heaving. “I see why they call it Devil’s Peak.”
Ben extended a steady hand, his blue linen sleeves rolled past his elbows. “There are other reasons for that.”
Arthur took the hand, hauling himself upright. His thoughts were louder than the quiet hum of the forest around them. He’d spent the last of his savings for this—every borrowed dollar, every shred of his dignity. All to track down the man who lived here. The one wrapped in whispers and warnings.
Brushing mud from his knees, Arthur glanced southward through the trees. He could see the Slate River twisting beneath the iron bridge, and beyond it, the main street of Westville, Michigan. In the distance, the hulking outline of Prince Milling loomed by the dam, its shadow bleeding into the landscape.
His chest ached with the weight of his father’s pocket watch, a grim reminder nestled in his waistcoat. He thought of Sarah at home, of little Jack. The Thompson name had once meant something in this town. Pride, his father always said, was the family compass. Now, that pride had led them straight into ruin. Was this desperate climb a betrayal—or the only way to save what little remained?
“That is where you’ll find him,” Ben said, pointing.
Arthur turned. A wigwam, sun-bleached and sagging, crouched at the base of a mound of gnarled roots and stone.
“Does he have a name?” Arthur asked.
Ben’s jaw tightened. “He was once called Migizi—Eagle—for his visions. But now?” His voice dropped. “Wiiwkwaan. Demon.”
Arthur swallowed hard, apprehension curling in his gut. But he was out of options. “Demon or not, we’re here.”
Ben hesitated. “It’s not too late to turn back.”
Arthur shook his head. “Your lands were sold from beneath your people, just as Prince stole this town from my family. We can’t abide it.”
He strode forward, the air growing thin, heavy. Birdsong vanished, replaced by an oppressive silence.
“It is rare,” a low voice called, “for a white man to set foot here.”
Arthur froze. A figure emerged from the shadows, wrapped in animal skins. From his head rose a crown of antlers and bone, jagged as the branches above. His face was gaunt, marked with streaks of white paint, eyes sharp as broken glass.
Arthur forced his mouth to work. “Pardon the intrusion.”
The shaman’s steps were eerily fluid as he descended the mound, his feet brushing the skulls and teeth embedded in the dirt.
“Desecration,” Ben spat, his voice tight with anger. “Our ancestors belong on our lands.”
“Which are no longer yours,” the shaman replied, a pained grin splitting his face. “And yet, they serve me.”
Arthur watched fury ripple across Ben’s expression, but before either could speak, the shaman gestured toward the wigwam. “Come.”
The wigwam’s entrance yawned open, black as a grave. Arthur hesitated, then glanced at Ben, searching for a shred of reassurance.
“Don’t do this,” Ben said, his voice trembling. “Please.”
Arthur looked away, the weight of shame already pressing on him. He stepped forward, the folds of the wigwam closing behind him like a shroud.
Inside, the air reeked of blood and decay. A skinned deer carcass hung from the ceiling, its ribs splayed like a broken cage. The shaman knelt in a circle of bones, his crown discarded beside him.
“Do you have a possession of an ancestor?”
Arthur fumbled, his fingers trembling as he withdrew the golden pocket watch. He offered it, and the shaman gestured to a small mound of dirt. Arthur placed it there, the chain coiling like a serpent.
“How does this work?”
“The pact is simple,” the shaman said, voice low and measured. “Your bloodline, bound to your desire, indebted to the spirits in exchange for power.”
Arthur’s chest tightened. Bloodline. He thought of Sarah, of Jack, and the weight of failure pressing on their future.
The shaman held up a jagged stone dagger. “Your hand.”
Arthur froze, his mind spinning. This wasn’t a simple transaction—it was a tether, a binding that would ripple through his family. He thought of Jack’s tiny hands, Sarah’s soft smile. Pride clashed with terror, but before he could reconsider, his hand lifted, shaking.
Pain exploded as the blade sliced his palm. Blood welled and spilled, pooling over the watch.
The shaman’s eyes gleamed as he chanted in a guttural tongue, his voice thick with something ancient and alien. When he was done, he pressed dirt over the bloodied watch and smiled—a predator’s smile.
“It is done,” he said.
Arthur staggered out of the wigwam, the air outside feeling too thin. Ben waited at the edge of the hill, his face carved with disappointment.
“I prayed to the Great Spirit to sway your course,” Ben said. “But if not, to protect you from this darkness.”
Arthur didn’t respond. He reached into his pocket and touched the watch, now heavier than before. Its golden surface was smeared red, its ticking loud in his ears.
He stared toward the town below. Prince Milling waited there.
And it would be his.
Westville Episode 3 - Devil’s Peak
Chapter 12
October 30th 1996
The quiet hum of the cruiser’s engine filled the cab as Casey guided it down a rain-slick backroad.
Joe Thompson was riding along tonight for the first part of the shift.
He knew the Chief wouldn’t have approved, given that he’d told him to keep himself separated from the case as much as he could. Now that the Feds were meddling in things, Casey figured it didn’t make much difference. Most of all, he just wanted to be there for his friend.
“Was this me?” Joe said, his voice flat and hollow as they cruised down a backroad outside of town.
“What do you mean?” Casey asked, turning the wheel as they banked right.
“Erin’s right. I’ve been distracted. Been—” He swallowed his words. “I haven’t had a drink since the day she went missing.”
“That’s good. I know it’s tough, man. All of this is. What you’ve been fighting, and—” Casey swallowed. “And to answer your question, no. This wasn’t you.”
“If I had just been there for her, like I said—”
“No use in blaming yourself.”
“Then who?”
Casey thought about saying, “the bastard who took her,” but that was a step too far. Suspicion ran rampant about Harold Meyers, but Casey didn’t buy it. Neither did Joe. They both figured she was still out there. Lost. Maybe she ran away. Or maybe someone else had taken her. Speculation wasn’t going to help matters, though.
“Just have to keep pounding the pavement,” Casey said.
“Heard the Feds got involved,” Joe said.
“Yep.”
“Doesn’t sound like a good thing.”
It wasn’t, for Millie’s prospects or for the department.
Casey wanted to change the subject, and though he realized it probably was no improvement, he asked anyway.
“Things with your dad,” he started.
“Are shit,” Joe finished.
“What’s going on?”
“All he cares about is the company.”
“Look, Joe,” Casey said, gripping the wheel as they approached Joe’s house. “You’re doing everything you can for Millie. Don’t let your old man or anyone else make you think otherwise.” Joe sighed, staring at the passing houses. “It’s not just Dad. It’s me. I—I wasn’t paying attention. Maybe if I had been…” His voice cracked. Casey pulled into Joe’s driveway and turned to him.
“You can’t change the past. But we’ll find her, Joe. We will.” Joe didn’t answer, his hand hovering near the door handle. Finally, he muttered, “Thanks for the ride,” before stepping out.
“I’m here when you need to talk.”
“I know, man. I know.”
Casey dropped him off at his place around 1 a.m., then finished out the rest of the shift.
#
Nearly a week now since Millie Thompson first went missing.
In that time, there was a feeling that Westville had been turned upside down. Talk of the days away election had dwindled and taking its place were hushed murmurs about Harry Meyers, his tragic death and at the same time, his suspected connection to what happened to Millie.
All the while, things somehow remained locked in the same old small town routines. Life went on regardless of tragedy or crisis. It was a way of coping.
Casey’s way was much different.
He sat at his usual booth in Fischer’s, leafing through the reports for what must have been the ten thousandth time, hoping he’d see something new. Wishing for some kind of bright, bold revelation—the kind that lead detectives on crime shows always seemed to have in the last five minutes of an episode.
He sipped his now-tepid coffee, seated in his usual corner booth with his least favorite clown frowning down at him from the picture frame on the wall. Though Westville felt different, on the surface, it looked the same as always. The town never really changed. But now, instead of the usual leisurely pace and complaints about the temperamental weather, or another pizza place or auto parts store opening in a vacant building, people were talking about curfews and casting suspicious glares at any new and unusual faces.
One of those faces happened to be sitting in the other corner booth—a man Casey hadn’t seen before. An older guy, wearing a heavy coat, big glasses, and sporting a mustache and goatee. Between sips of coffee, Casey noticed the man glancing his way every now and then.
Casey returned to reading the interviews with the last people who had seen Millie, including Olivia Fischer, Brett Hoffman, and a handful of other students at the game, along with a gas station employee who had reported seeing Millie and Harold Meyers talking in the lot nearby. He thought about the bracelet they’d found in Meyers’ pocket.
It could very well have been Millie’s. But something about that wreck hadn’t sat well with Casey. None of it did, really. He rubbed the scar on his brow and glared up at the clown picture on the wall.
“What’re you looking at?” he muttered. “Someone who needs some sleep.” Casey turned toward the familiar, weathered voice.
“Hey Dad.”
Dave Benson patted him on the shoulder, then folded himself into the booth with a grunt and a sigh. In the past few years, the sides of his now-wispy hair had turned gray-white, with only a tinge of brown left on top, and what used to be a hearty beard was down to little more than stubble.
He smiled across the table—the same smile people used to say Casey had when he was a kid. Come to think of it, no one said that much lately, though even Casey knew he was looking more and more like his father by the day, set apart only by the asymmetrical slant of his left eyebrow. Gail came by with a steaming cup and offered to refill Casey’s. He waved her off with a tired hand. Casey’s dad took a sip.
“How’s Joe holding up?” “
“Not great. Last thing he needed in recovery was all this.”
“Probably not. But we never get to choose what happens. Just how we handle it.”
Casey breathed out through his nostrils. “Easier said than done.”
“I know it is,” his dad said, looking out the window wistfully toward the white steeple of the Methodist Church across the street. They talked about the place up in Baldwin—Casey’s grandparents’ old house, which his parents had taken over. Casey asked how his mom was doing, how she was really doing.
The same dementia that had taken his grandmother seemed to be showing early signs in his mom. It was something no one wanted to acknowledge or talk about, but someone would have to at some point.
“She’s fine, Case. Nothing to worry about.”
“Not yet,” Casey said.
“You know, you’ve always been a worrier. Ever since you were little.”
“Yeah?” Casey asked, half-expecting his dad to offer some magical explanation for why he was the way he was.
“I remember one night, snow blowing like hell had frozen over, you sat by the door looking down the road for your mom’s headlights for two hours, waiting for her to get home from the office.”
Casey remembered it too. His dad was right—he’d always worried. Always carried the weight of concern for other people, even when he couldn’t control it. His mind flashed to the burning Camaro.
“I stopped over to Mrs. Potter’s the other day,” Casey said, changing the subject. His dad asked how she was, and for a split second, Casey thought about saying something about his mom not driving anymore, having noted Marge’s car sitting idle on flat tires. But he thought better of it. His dad wouldn’t hear it. Not yet.
“I’m headed back up after I run to the hardware store for a few things.”
“All right.”
“You coming for Christmas?”
“Dunno. Depends.” Casey gestured down at the paperwork.
“I’m sorry, Case. It’s a helluva thing. God, Harry Meyers?”
“We don’t know anything for sure yet, Dad.”
“Still…”
They finished their food and coffee, and Casey walked his dad up to the counter. As usual, they did the old song and dance of who would pay the bill, his dad always winning out by sheer seniority.
Casey greeted Aly on his way out, catching her eye, but she was busy, and he needed to get back to the station.
After his dad stepped out the door, Casey went back to the booth for his paperwork and coat.
That was when he saw the business card. Janus Global Logistics, written in white on black.
He flipped the card over and saw a red-and-black hexagonal logo, two of the sides broken before meeting the others. Casey looked around the busy café, spotting a couple of old regulars sitting where the stranger had been.
Throwing on his coat, he tucked the card in his pocket, and gathered the reports under his arm. He startled at the chintzy warble of a motion-sensing ghost hanging by the door as he made his way out.
That’s right. It was Halloween.
Curfew or not, missing kid or not, kids would be hitting the streets tonight. For a couple tight closed watched hours anyway.
He got in his car and cranked the heat, then pulled that card back out again. He set in on the dash, wondering left it, with a hunch it had been that man in the corner booth.
But who the hell was he? And who—or what—was Janus?
Chapter 13
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Kyle said, sporting his Boy Scout best, a proud display of badges on his tan shirt.
“Would you just knock?” Olivia said.
He’d been stalling for a good two minutes ever since they walked up to the door, a mild wind blowing around fat dark purple and orange clouds in a dimming sky.
Kids were already out, starting to trick or treat. The plan was to blend into that crowd for a while at least, and slowly make their way through houses along the river, eventually heading down to the cemetery and Harrison Street.
The school and the police had made no secret of the strict curfew in place with everything going on. Apparently, it wasn’t enough to cancel the hallowed tradition of walking up to strangers’ doorsteps and accepting candy of unknown origin. She wasn’t complaining, though—this was the perfect cover to go out looking for Millie.
“Come on, man,” Austin said, shoving his friend closer to the door. He wore a thrown-together costume of raggedy, secondhand clothes, claiming he was supposed to be some kind of zombie.
Olivia had opted for the same old black shirt, leggings, and cloak from last year, along with a Scream ghost mask that smelled like chemicals inside and got so hot and humid from her own breath that she could keep it on for a grand total of about one minute.
Kyle finally knocked, and a man with a mustache, half-bald head, and a belly protruding beneath a flannel shirt answered.
“Hey, Uncle Roger. Eli ready?”
“What, no trick-or-treat? Ah, I’m kidding… Eli!” he called back into the house.
Not a few seconds later, a scrawny boy with light hair, wearing an identical Boy Scout outfit but weighed down with a considerably larger number of badges, hopped out onto the front porch.
“Hey, guys!” he said cheerfully.
“You boys be careful now,” Kyle’s uncle said, his eyes falling to Olivia. “Oh, and girl.”
“We will,” she answered. “I’ll keep them in line.”
He shut the door, and they stepped off the porch.
“Man, I’m so jazzed for this. Isn’t this great, Kyle? We get to put our scout skills to real use. Oh, man.”
“Alright, alright, calm it down,” Kyle said. “Remind me not to let him have any sugar.”
Eli took a wheezing breath from an inhaler and pushed up his glasses. He reached out a hand. “Eli Lancaster,” he said.
Olivia shook his hand, unable to hold back a smirk as she watched Kyle groan, covering his face with his hand.
“Olivia Fischer. Thanks for helping us.”
“Are you kidding? This is the most exciting night of my life!”
“You did get the key, didn’t you?”
“To the shed? No need.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, Dad always just keeps it hidden under a barrel around the side of the thing.”
“You couldn’t have just told us that?”
“Could have, I guess. But where’s the fun in that?”
“Let’s go,” Kyle said.
“We should hit a few houses first,” Austin said. “At least make it look like we’re doing what we said we were.”
“Excellent idea. Plus, I could really go for a Snickers or two.”
Olivia laughed. Laughed, for the first time in days.
“Let’s do that. Once it’s darker, we’ll make our way to the cabin.”
“Yes, ma’am!” Eli said in salute.
He marched off down the leaf-strewn sidewalk, pillowcase slung proudly over his shoulder.
“See what I mean?” Kyle moaned.
“At least someone has a good attitude,” said Olivia.
“Whatever. You can thank me later. He made me promise to wear our scout uniforms. Lamest costume ever.”
“This isn’t about costumes. We’re looking for Millie, remember?”
“Right.”
“Come on,” Austin said. “I agree with Eli. I’m starving.”
Olivia followed them, a quiver of nervousness running through her.
She recalled last year, when she and Millie had gone trick-or-treating, then afterward sorted through their candy haul while watching The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Despite herself, Olivia had gotten wrapped up in the soundtrack, and at one point they were raucously belting out “Out There” before collapsing into a sugar-and-lack-of-sleep-induced laughing fit.
She missed that. She missed her friend.
A cold determination settled inside her as she looked to the jagged tendrils of branches and the hilly forest ahead, looming over the rooftops.
They would end this tonight.
Chapter 14
Darkness fell over Westville well before seven, thickened by the steady patter of cold rain. Droplets splashed down in heavy bursts, each one stinging with the icy bite of fall’s late edge.
Olivia hoisted her pack higher, securing it against her back as her flashlight sliced through the mist-laden night, illuminating the narrow dirt road that wound toward the boy scout cabin.
They kept up the ruse with trick-or-treating stops at a couple of houses along the way.
“Now, just what are you kids supposed to be?” asked old Miss Potter, squinting through her thick glasses as she scrutinized Austin.
“Zombie,” he replied flatly, brushing rain from his long black hair.
“Uh-huh.” She narrowed her eyes, then handed them each a handful of sticky, old-fashioned candies wrapped in red and white stripes or gold foil. “You kids don’t be making any crazy noise tonight now, you hear?” she added, a slight edge of warning in her voice.
They offered a chorus of murmured thanks before heading back onto the dark road, where Olivia resumed the lead, her flashlight beam catching glimpses of mud and scattered leaves as they trudged forward. When they finally reached the boy scout cabin, they each skirted around the rusted red gate, emerging onto the field beyond. Olivia exhaled, her breath fogging the air.
“We’ll need to grab supplies from inside,” Eli called out, his voice barely cutting through the steady rainfall. He marched over to the side of the cabin, feeling along the ground until he located the old wooden barrel resting against the wall. Bending down, he reached under and fumbled for a moment before pulling out a small, tarnished key.
“Got it!” he announced, grinning as he held it up for them to see.
Once inside, they set to work quickly. The cabin smelled of old wood and damp earth, and the faint chill of neglect hung in the air. Olivia moved toward a dusty shelf lined with gear, grabbing walkie-talkies and checking the batteries. She passed one to each of them, along with flashlights that cast an unsettling glow in the dim room.
“Take extras,” she said, handing out spare batteries. “If we lose light out there, we’re done for.”
Eli stuffed a walkie-talkie into his pocket and tucked another flashlight under his arm. “Alright, here’s the plan,” he said, adjusting his pack. “To get to Devil’s Peak, we’ll follow the trail until we hit the powerlines. Then we’ll take those the rest of the way.”
Outside, the world felt drenched and silent, broken only by the soft rustling of leaves as they moved toward the trailhead. The cabin was quickly swallowed by darkness behind them, its faint outline fading as they pressed on.
Olivia kept her flashlight trained ahead, illuminating the narrow, muddy trail that snaked up along the riverbank and disappeared into the dark tangle of trees. The rain had picked up, falling in thick, heavy drops that pattered against leaves and splattered in wide puddles on the ground. Each step was a squelching challenge as the trail grew steeper, winding upward in switchbacks toward the hill that overlooked Westville. Every so often, Olivia glanced back to make sure the others were still close, their faces shadowed and rain-soaked, but determined.
“Stay together,” she reminded them, her voice barely carrying over the sound of the rain and the quiet rush of the river beside them. She tightened her grip on the flashlight, trying to keep it steady as the path became rockier. Boulders jutted up from the earth, slick with moss and mud, making each step treacherous. The hillside rose sharply, and Olivia felt her calves burn as they climbed, her breath coming out in puffs of fog in the chilly air.
“Are we almost there?” Kyle called from behind, his voice strained as he slipped and caught himself on a low-hanging branch.
“Just keep following the trail,” Eli replied, his voice muffled by the hood of his rain jacket. He glanced over his shoulder to check on Kyle, but his eyes kept flicking toward the woods, scanning the shadows like he expected something to move within them.
The trees loomed taller as they ascended, their branches intertwining above to form a dense, dripping canopy. Shadows pooled thick between the trunks, creating strange shapes that seemed to shift with each pass of their flashlights. Olivia’s heart thudded harder with each step, the eerie quiet of the woods pressing down on them as the familiar world of town and streetlights fell away, replaced by a suffocating darkness that grew deeper and more absolute the further they went.
Austin moved up beside Olivia, his footsteps light despite the slick mud. “This place gives me the creeps,” he muttered, casting a wary glance at the trees that lined the path.
“It’s the rain,” she whispered back, not entirely believing her own words. “It just makes everything sound different.”
They paused for a moment, gathering their breath and adjusting their packs as they stood on a ledge that jutted out over the river. Below, the water surged, dark and swollen from the rain, crashing against rocks in churning white froth. The roar of the river filled the air, momentarily drowning out every other sound. Olivia glanced down, feeling the dizzying pull of the rushing water and the wet rocks beneath their feet.
“Careful on this part,” she warned. “One slip and you’ll end up down there.”
Kyle shuddered, edging closer to the hillside as he eyed the river below. “I’m not planning on a swim tonight.”
They pressed on, leaving the river behind as the trail twisted sharply uphill. Their breathing grew heavy, and the cold air burned in their lungs as they navigated a series of narrow switchbacks that wound up the steep slope. Olivia kept her focus on the beam of her flashlight, her boots sinking into the damp earth with each step, mud clinging to her shoes and weighing her down. Tree roots coiled across the path, hidden under layers of wet leaves, and more than once, she stumbled, her heartbeat spiking as she reached out to steady herself.
The trees thinned out slightly as they reached the upper part of the hill, revealing glimpses of the blackened sky above. Olivia paused for a moment, catching her breath as she looked up, rain dripping from her hair and blurring her vision. Somewhere behind them, she could hear the others’ footfalls, and the faint sound of their labored breathing was the only reminder that she wasn’t entirely alone in the oppressive silence.
Austin’s flashlight beam bobbed beside her, catching on the jagged rocks and the tall ferns that lined the trail. “Think we’re almost there?” he asked, his voice low, as if he didn’t want to disturb the quiet.
“Almost,” Olivia said, her eyes scanning the path ahead, her heart pounding harder with a strange mix of excitement and dread.
Then, the rain laden silence shattered with a hiss.
A bubbling sizzle that cut through the night, like meat searing on a hot grill. It was a sharp, menacing sound that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. She stopped abruptly, the beam of her flashlight jerking upward.
A thin, blood-red light sliced through the dark, emanating from the shadow of a massive oak tree. The light pulsed, shifting until it formed an orb, casting jittering, erratic shadows across the ground as it moved.
“What is that?” Kyle whispered, but Olivia’s throat felt dry as she stared, too captivated to respond.
The hissing sound deepened, morphing into a whisper that clawed into her mind. “You…guilty ones…you are the guilty one…”
Suddenly, an image of her father flickered before her—a haunting vision of him, frail and pale, lying in the hospital bed. His voice echoed, calling for her, but she’d stood there, unable to go in, paralyzed by fear.
“Olivia!” Austin’s voice jolted her back, his hand gripping her arm as he yanked her into motion. The red light shifted, darting from one tree to another, flickering closer and closer, as if pursuing them.
“Run!” Olivia shouted, snapping out of her daze. She fell into step behind Austin, his dark hair whipping in the wind and rain as they sprinted down the slick trail.
Then a scream pierced the night to her right.
“Eli!” Olivia skidded to a halt, her flashlight swinging wildly as she scanned the slope. Her heart dropped as she spotted him, crumpled on the ground, holding his leg at an unnatural angle. Without thinking, she bolted down the rain-soaked hillside, nearly tumbling as she slid over rocks and slick leaves, until she reached his side.
“Can you stand?” she asked breathlessly, her words barely audible over the pounding rain.
Eli shook his head, his face contorted in pain. “It’s broken… I can’t…”
The red light intensified, casting a crimson glow over them both as a shadow emerged from the orb. Olivia’s heart pounded as she took in the creature—its limbs impossibly long and jagged, like crooked branches or shattered antlers. Claws jutted from its hands, and its face was obscured in shadow, save for two points of blazing red that could have been eyes.
The hiss returned, louder this time, echoing with an unnatural fury. “You are the guilty ones…you are the guilty one…”
She stumbled back, her hand brushing against something solid—a flashlight. Eli’s flashlight. She grasped it and, with a shaking hand, aimed it at the shadow, clicking it on.
A piercing shriek, a sound that tore through the night as wisps of iridescent smoke rose from its frame, as if the light itself were burning it. The thing writhed, stumbling back from the beam.
“Come on, Eli.” Olivia bent down, throwing his arm over her shoulder as she helped him to his feet. They staggered forward, Olivia’s every muscle straining to support his weight as they moved toward the riverbank.
“Olivia! Eli!” Kyle and Austin’s voices cut through the rain, and Olivia angled them toward the sound, casting frantic glances over her shoulder to ensure the creature hadn’t returned.
They finally made it back to the field behind the scout cabin, where Austin’s flashlight bobbed toward them. Relief washed over her as they approached, Kyle cursing up a storm the moment he saw Eli’s leg.
“Your dad is gonna kill me,” Kyle muttered.
Olivia swallowed, steadying her breath, her hands trembling from the memory of the creature’s shadow.
“Whatever that was,” she managed, “I think it has Millie.”
Chapter 15
When Casey entered the station late Halloween night, he didn’t expect to see Aly’s lime-green Beetle parked just outside on the road. Inside, Aly, her mother Kathy, and Olivia Fischer were speaking with Travis Johnson in the interview room.
“What happened?” Casey asked as Reynolds greeted him, looking as tired as Casey felt.
Reynolds sighed. “Seems like that girl just can’t stay outta trouble. She and a few other kids ventured off into the woods earlier tonight. Said they were looking for the Thompson girl.”
Casey swore under his breath. It sounded like something he probably would have done when he was a kid—he and Joe both—if one of their friends had gone missing. But now, as an adult and all too aware of the realities of predators (a term very much applying to humanity and not just the animal kingdom), he couldn’t condone it.
He still wasn’t convinced by a long shot that Harry Meyers was their man. He didn’t think anyone on the force was. But for now, the Feds were operating under that assumption, along with the belief that Meyers might be connected to the three other missing girls—two in Michigan and one in Indiana—over the last two years.
“Who found them?” Casey asked.
“Roger Lancaster called it in. His boy, Eli, broke his leg. Apparently, he fell down the ravine near the river on the trail. Said they were running from something.”
“Running from what?”
“Benson, we’re talking about a bunch of kids out on Halloween night. Think they needed much more than a twig breaking to send them running scared?”
“Except they went out there knowing one of their friends had just gone missing. They had enough bravery for that.”
“Fine line between bravery and stupidity.”
Casey nodded in silent agreement, but as he looked at Olivia’s face—pale, tired, and haunted—he knew there was something more. Something she wasn’t saying. He too had heard, felt, and seen something strange the morning Millie went missing, and he couldn’t shake the feeling it wasn’t just coincidence.
Suddenly, Travis Johnson stood and began yelling at Olivia. Kathy Fischer shot up at the same time, rebuking the young officer.
“Just what in the hell is this? My daughter doesn’t need to be interrogated.”
“You’re going to stop lying and tell me what you were really doing out there,” Travis shouted, completely ignoring Kathy.
“Johnson!” Reynolds barked, opening the door.
Travis whipped his head around, then turned back to sneer at Olivia.
“I didn’t do anything. We just wanted to find Millie.”
“Travis, back off,” Casey warned.
“Stay out of this, Benson.”
“No,” Reynolds said, grabbing the officer’s arm. “You’re done.”
Travis leered at Reynolds, then shook his head, as if suddenly realizing what he was doing.
“I—I’m sorry, Sarge…”
“Take a breather, son.”
Casey watched Johnson leave the room, anger still simmering on the edges of his posture.
What the hell was that about?
“I’m very sorry about that,” Reynolds said. “We’re all under a lot of stress right now.”
Just then, Aly came into the room. “I heard yelling.”
“Are we done here?” Olivia asked, looking at Reynolds.
“I don’t see any reason to keep you all here any longer. And again, I’m sorry.”
Casey walked them out and explained to Aly what had happened with Johnson. Then, he turned to Olivia.
“Can I have a word?” he asked, glancing at Kathy. She nodded, and Olivia followed him to the side of the hallway.
“Heard you said you were being chased by something tonight,” Casey began.
Olivia remained silent.
“Want to tell me about that?”
“Why? So you can tell me I’m making shit up too?”
“Try me.”
Olivia looked up at the ceiling and shook her head. “All I know is someone—something—was after us tonight. I couldn’t make out anything about them. It was like a shadow.”
“Like you couldn’t make out who it was? Because it was dark?”
“No. There was this red light too. Shooting between the trees. Until it caught up to us and—this thing, shadow, whatever… came out of it. And after us. Eli ran, and he fell, and I went after him.”
Red lights in the woods...
Casey’s gut tightened.
Olivia uncrossed her arms. “And there was this hissing sound.”
Casey could almost hear it as if he were there again in the clearing that morning.
“It felt like this thing just wanted to… I don’t know. Do bad things.”
Casey stood silent. He remembered that feeling of dread, and those angry whispers.
“You’re the guilty ones,” Olivia said.
“What?” Casey sputtered; sure he couldn’t have heard her right.
“I heard something say that. Like a whisper.”
Just like he had.
“And the morning when she went missing…”
“Go on.”
“There was this truck driver at the mill. Some guy named Ethan.”
“What about him?”
“Just the way he looked at me. And he was all dirty, muddy boots and pants, like he’d been stomping around in the woods or by the river or something.”
“Could just be he went for a walk,” Casey said.
“Not to mention he looked at me like he wanted to—I don’t know. Hurt me.”
“Did you tell Reynolds about this when he interviewed you?”
“Yea.”
Casey didn’t remember seeing anything about him in the report.
“You don’t think this was Mr. Meyers, do you?”, Olivia said.
Casey shook his head, dodging the question. “Anything else you want to tell me?”
She glanced hesitantly down the hall, in the direction Travis Johnson had stalked off.
“I got the same kind of feeling from him too,” she said, then rejoined Aly and Kathy. Casey nodded after them as they walked out.
Johnson was just worked up. Stressed. They all were. Right?
But Ethan Crawley. He was worth looking into.
More than that, Casey believed Olivia. How could he not, when they’d heard the same strange whisper.
You’re the guilty ones…
It was going to be a shift with everything that was rattling around in his brain. Casey figured he might as well occupy his time.
Before he left, he ran a search on the NCIC dedicated terminal, for Ethan Crawley. 38 years old. A veteran. Record for possession of drugs from several years back, and a couple misdemeanors.
He called Joe from the station, and after apologizing that there wasn’t anything new on Millie, he asked him what he knew about Ethan.
“He’s been driving for us the past couple years. Quiet guy, hard worker. Why?”
“His name came up.”
Joe was silent on the line for a moment. “Something to do with Millie?”
“No,” Casey lied, “nothing like that.”
Ethan Crawley. He knew who he was because Joe had hired him, despite his criminal history. He’d had Casey run his background check. A prior drug possession, but he seemed to have cleaned up his act.
Four hours later, Casey cruised back down main street, he veered off into the gas station, and just parked there for a while. He stared up at the sentry silos and slate gray concrete buildings of PRINCE Milling.
He figured it was a long shot in the dark. But between 2 and 3am a PRINCE tractor trailer often made its way in off the highway and snaked a couple miles north into downtown Westville. He waited till 3:05am and was about to pull back onto the road when he heard the whine of semi-truck brakes.
There at the blinking red was a truck, the number on the back of the PRINCE trailer read 042.
And behind the wheel was a man very much matching the gaunt appearance of Ethan Crawley that he’d seen in the database.
He pulled into the loading dock, and when he got out, stopped, turned, and seemed to stare right across the road, directly at Casey’s patrol car.
As Crawley disappeared into the warehouse, Casey could have sworn he heard the faintest hiss, like a whisper cutting through the rain. His pulse quickened. You’re the guilty ones… Olivia’s words came rushing back.
After a moment, he turned and walked into the warehouse, and the garage door came down. Casey tapped the steering wheel as rain pelted the windshield in sporadic beats, while the wipers slashed in rhythm. He
He stared at the Janus Global card on the dash under the faint glow of parking lot lights. He flipped the card over again, looked at the broken hexagon logo, then the gleaming red PRINCE sign overhead.
Olivia’s description. Dirty boots, the way his eyes had lingered on Olivia just a moment too long.
“What were you doing out there?” Casey muttered to himself.
Crawley knew something. Casey could feel it.
And if he was right, Crawley wasn’t just a piece of the puzzle.
He might be the key to the whole damn thing.