Episode 4 - Buried
Westville is an episodic serial novel. Be sure to start from the beginning, HERE.
Chapter 16
Officer Travis Johnson wiped tepid beads of sweat from his brow, staring off into the darkened woods.
He’d left his cruiser running. How long had he been standing here, out in the cold, howling wind? Why was he standing here?
He kept clenching his fists in rhythm with his quickened pulse.
That night, when he’d brought those kids in on Halloween. Before he’d found them—something had found him.
Red, burning light. A shadow.
He stood frozen there, just as he did now. He couldn’t move. Could barely breathe.
They’re the guilty ones… It’s them.
A whisper. A truth.
Branches cracked somewhere within the dense treeline, and he readied himself. For what or who, he didn’t know.
A man appeared: plaid jacket, mud-soaked boots, and jeans. Tired eyes and a severe, flat brow.
“Officer,” the man said.
“Who are you?” Travis asked, his voice quaking.
“A like-minded individual.”
“I said, who are you?” Travis yelled, his hand flicking toward the holster of his gun as he stepped closer, out of the trees, his primal instincts kicking in.
“Name’s Ethan. Not that it matters.”
“Why am I here?”
“I think you know.”
Travis clenched. Then, a split-second violent flash of red filled his mind, accompanied by a screeching hiss.
They’re the guilty ones, Travis. They must be punished.
“I—I can’t,” he stammered.
The man stepped forward. “We just have to clear the way. The Red will do the rest.”
Travis swallowed against the lump in his throat. The Red?
A hard clank echoed on the hood of his car. The man removed his hand, revealing a golden pocket watch—old, weathered, stained.
He nodded toward it.
Travis felt the compulsion rising in him. Too strong. He felt the blood coursing hot in his veins, a hissing din in his ears, and something crackling in the air.
He reached out and grabbed the watch.
He saw it all. Heard it all. Heard the words.
Seethe.
Travis trembled, smiled, and felt a hot tear roll down his cheek.
“You understand, don’t you?” the man said.
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“Skin of the hunted. Bones of the guilty.”
Travis stopped, hearing the surreal sound of his own voice reciting the words he’d heard through the noise.
“Blood of the innocent,” Ethan finished.
Travis nodded. He let go of the watch and handed it back to Ethan.
“See you on the road, Officer,” Ethan said.
Travis nodded, shaking under the terrible, beautiful weight of the Red inside him.
He got into the car and sped off into the night.
Chapter 17
Casey knocked on the door of the Prince Milling front offices early Friday morning, just after his night shift, and none other than Jack Thompson himself answered.
“Casey,” he said, pulling off reading glasses and holding a packet of papers in his hand. “Come in.”
The scent of fresh drywall and money calcified into real estate hit him as he walked in. The scent of new. The offices had just been renovated, coinciding with the company’s recent expansion and the unprecedented banner year they’d had. He and Joe had celebrated that very thing earlier in the year. That was also about the time Casey had become aware of Joe’s excessive drinking problem.
“Anything new?” Jack asked, walking over to his desk and setting the paperwork down. His expression hardened, and he let out a sigh, as if bracing himself.
“No, sir,” Casey said. “Not exactly.”
“I see.”
“I’m sorry. We’re doing everything we can. The feds are on it too now.”
“So I’ve heard. Can’t be a good sign.”
Casey paused, weighing his words. “I’d say the more manpower, the better our odds.”
“Yeah, maybe. Well, what can I do for you?”
“I wanted to ask you about Ethan Crawley. He’s a more recent hire of yours.”
Jack straightened, picking up a thick black mug with PRINCE emblazoned in red across the side. “Sure. One of Joe’s hires.” He took a few big strides over to the coffee machine and poured himself a cup, offering some with a tip of the pot. Casey waved him off.
“Olivia Fischer, one of Millie’s friends,” Casey said, “She had a… strange interaction with Ethan last Saturday morning.”
“What sort of interaction?” Jack pressed.
“Seemed like he was jittery, and allegedly a little aggressive toward her.”
“Okay,” Jack said, taking a couple of steps toward Casey and sipping the steaming liquid. “And where was this?”
Casey drew in a breath. “Just here outside the loading dock.”
“So she was trespassing?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“Well, from what I hear, Ethan can be a little prickly, but I’m sure he was just doing his job. Didn’t want a kid being a liability.”
That had been Casey’s first thought too when Olivia told him, before she mentioned she’d reported it and it never ended up on the interview transcript. But then Casey had seen Ethan the night before, standing in the rain, staring at his patrol car.
And heard that strange whining hiss as he did.
“Could be,” Casey said.
Jack narrowed his gaze with that sort of judging look Casey had seen him give Joe more times than he could count. “You think he might know something about Millie?”
“I’m not sure about that, sir.”
“If that’s the case, you just say the word. I’m all about standing up for my employees, but if there’s even a whiff that he had anything to do with—” Jack stopped himself and drew a deep breath. “You tell me, son.”
“It couldn’t hurt,” Casey said.
Jack gave him Ethan’s information. Apparently, Ethan was renting one of the dingy apartments across from May’s Ice Cream. Not far.
“Anything you need, you don’t hesitate,” Jack said as Casey left.
“Will do.”
Casey got back in his patrol car, parked it at the station and got on his bike for the two-mile ride to his place outside of downtown Westville, which happened to go right by Crawley’s place.
Casey knew he shouldn’t be doing it, but he set down his bike against the mailbox, walked up the cracked sidewalk to a barely hinged screen door, opened it, and knocked on the thicker one. He heard a muffled stereo blaring.
An old man, who immediately reeked of cigarettes and cats, opened the door. An ‘Alice In Chains’ song snarled inside.
“Hell do you want?”
Casey wasn’t in uniform anymore, nor could he afford to let the man know he was a cop, having been ordered off direct involvement in the case—in an official capacity anyway.
“Ethan around?” Casey asked.
The old man snorted, then spat on the porch, quite close to Casey’s shoe.
“He stiffed me on rent. You a friend of his?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, get better friends. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of him for two months.”
There was a hitch in Casey’s chest. “Any idea where he is?”
“Shit if I know. You tell him to pay what he owes.”
The door slammed in Casey’s face.
As he walked to his bike, Casey wondered whether Joe, Jack, or anyone at Prince knew of Ethan’s change in address—or maybe lack of address altogether. He was a truck driver mostly. Maybe living a vagabond lifestyle. The kind of guy who, if he was wandering a town like Westville, might find his eyes wandering and lingering on people too. Girls like Millie Thompson, maybe.
Casey knew that was a whole lot of assumptions. Maybe dangerous ones. Still didn’t change the fact that Olivia’s account of Ethan—and now the fact that he wasn’t living where his employer thought he was—didn’t sit well.
When he got home, he called the Chief and unraveled his suspicions about Ethan.
“Not really much to bring him in on, Case. Even for questioning.”
“It’s worth looking into, though.”
“Maybe. But not by you.”
Casey sighed. “Right.”
“Not to mention, I think the days are numbered with us as lead on this case. Those two feds are becoming a pain-in-the-ass staple around here.”
After Casey hung up, he tried to relax. He couldn’t. He tried to reach Joe, but there was no answer at their place. He left a message on the machine. Figured maybe Joe could shed some light on the situation with Ethan.
Casey sat down on the couch and stared at the ceiling, thinking that someone out there knew exactly where Millie was.
And he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was right under their noses.
Chapter 18
Olivia had been grounded. Again.
She didn’t even try to argue this time. What was the point?
“I know you’re going through a lot right now,” Kathy said, trying to be motherly again. “But you can’t keep doing this, Liv.”
“Fine. I get it.”
“I want to be here for you.”
“Whatever.”
Kathy sighed and shook her head. “You talk to her,” she said to Aly, leaving Olivia’s room.
Her sister stood in the doorway for a moment.
“You going to lecture me too?” Olivia asked, not looking up.
“I’m not telling her about the drinking,” Aly said. “Or the pot.”
“Why not?” Olivia asked, her voice barely above a whisper, grateful but wary.
Aly sighed. “That’s the last thing anyone needs to worry about right now. Just stay put and out of trouble. For a few days, okay? Casey and the police are handling things.”
“Alright,” Olivia said. “Thanks.”
Aly started to head down the stairs.
“Do you… like him?” Olivia asked.
Aly stopped, giving a small shake of her head. “I’ve gotta get to the restaurant.”
For the rest of the day, Olivia’s mind spun, replaying every detail of Halloween night in the woods. That thing they’d seen—whatever it was—it had Millie.
Saturday dragged, the hours thick and heavy. She was starving, hadn’t eaten the whole day before. She wandered downstairs, poured herself another bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch—her third of the morning—showered, and wondered how, only a week ago, she’d been biking over to Millie’s to apologize for some stupid fight they’d had. All of that seemed a lifetime away now.
As she finished drying off, a sudden rapping on her window startled her. She tightened her towel, glancing around for something to defend herself with. Her hair dryer was closest. She snatched it, unplugging it from the wall, and crept closer to the window, heart hammering. The light blue curtain stirred in the chilly November breeze as the window edged open.
With a quick breath, she whipped the curtain back and swung, a wild arc of motion—and a strangled yelp from the intruder as she made contact.
“Austin?” she gasped, dropping the hair dryer. “What the hell?”
He rubbed his arm, wincing. “Maybe don’t try to kill me next time.”
“Maybe don’t break in through my window!” she shot back, trying to steady her breath.
“I wasn’t breaking in! I just—” Austin trailed off, his words stumbling to a halt as his eyes darted to the floor. He quickly looked away, his face flushing.
Olivia frowned, confused for a moment, then realized she was still standing there in nothing but a towel.
“Just… give me a second,” she muttered, her cheeks burning as she grabbed some clothes from her dresser and darted into the bathroom.
A minute later, she returned in a worn gray sweatshirt and matching joggers, her damp hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. Austin was still standing awkwardly near the window, inspecting a scuff on his shoe.
“Okay,” she said, crossing her arms. “What’s so important you decided to play Spider-Man up my house?”
He held up a worn leather notebook and set it carefully on her dresser. “This belonged to my grandfather. Passed down by the tribal elders. Found it in the old trunk we have upstairs a couple years ago.”
Flipping through the brittle pages, he stopped at a black-and-white image that sent a chill through Olivia—a figure with tangled hair and hollow eyes, staring out from the page like it could pull her into whatever darkness it came from.
“Skadegamutc,” he said, his voice low.
“Bless you,” she said.
“It’s what it’s called. The ghost-witch.”
Olivia felt her mouth go dry. He glanced at her, then back at the book.
“The Skadegamutc. Said to be what happens when a sorcerer—a really evil one—refuses to stay dead. At night, it comes back to life, turns into this… this ball of light. It floats, stalking the woods.
It has to… eat people. To stay alive. To keep itself immortal. That’s what it does—hunts, waits for anyone who’s unlucky enough to cross its path.”
She stared at the illustration, the empty eyes of the ghost-witch searing into her.
“You really think that’s what it was?”
He shrugged, the kind of shrug you use when the truth is too big to look at straight. “I know it sounds insane.”
Olivia swallowed. “If this thing got Millie—” She faltered, catching her own mistake. “If this thing got her, do you think she’s—”
“I don’t know,” Austin said.
Olivia remembered what she’d felt that night. “I saw it. It was like a shadow. Bigger than a man, but not quite there.”
“What do you mean?”
She breathed out her frustration. “Like it wanted to—to kill us. But it couldn’t. Maybe it’s more ghost than anything else.”
“Could be.” Austin stared down at the book. “It also says in here that the sorcerer, in life, often made deals with people.”
Olivia shivered. “What kind of deals?”
“According to my grandpa, shamans were supposed to be healers of the tribe. But some ended up dealing with bad spirits and tricked people into doing things.”
The door opened downstairs. Her mom or sister was coming home.
“You should go.”
Austin nodded. “Right.” He left the book. “I’ll see you at school. Oh,” he said, rifling through his jacket pocket. He pulled out a cosmic brownie, a little squished. “Heard you liked these,” he said, then rushed back out the window.
Olivia smiled after him, then thought of Millie.
She sat on her bed, opened the book, and stared at the haunting sketch of the face, staring back at her.
Chapter 19
A windstorm had stripped the leaves overnight, leaving skeletal branches clawing at the roiling gray November 3rd sky. Casey eyed Clinton and Dole yard signs in opposition to one another, planted in neighboring lawns.
Politics had taken a decided backseat to the rumors and scuttlebutt surrounding Millie. Then there was Harry Meyer’s funeral. By all accounts, it had been an abysmal affair. How could it not be, when the man was still the prime suspect in Millie’s disappearance? And naturally, with how things went in Westville—or any small town—everyone was talking about it.
Casey still didn’t buy that.
Taking yet another detour down whatever side road pulled him along, Casey thought maybe, one of these days, a hunch would lead him to something pointing toward Millie.
A lucky break.
Or maybe, impossibly, he’d happen upon her stumbling along the side of the road.
He mostly did it to make himself feel better—or feel anything besides the hopeless ache of days gone by with no decent leads.
When he finally stepped into his cubicle, the faint hum of the precinct surrounded him. He dropped his coat on the back of his chair and glanced at the paperwork on his desk. He started in on filling out his expense report when he noticed the folder.
Bloated and sealed with a rubber band, it sat precariously on top of a stack of case files. Casey frowned. He didn’t remember leaving it there.
“Gail,” he called, holding it up as she walked by. “You drop this off?”
She squinted at the folder and shook her head. “Innocent,” she said, raising her coffee cup like a toast.
Casey removed the band and opened it. At first, he wasn’t sure what he was looking at. The top paper was a grid; the second, a map of familiar streets. A map of Westville.
Unfolding the page, he read the heading at the top:
Sanborn Fire Insurance Map, dated April 1892.
Buildings were drawn by their shape and mostly colored a pale yellow, denoting each one’s zoning, and businesses were labeled in slanted pen—Barber, Carriages, Meat. Along what was now Main Street—labeled as ‘wooden bridge’—crossing the Slate River, was the Prince Mill Yard. Certain buildings were marked in red, and fewer still in green.
Flipping through more pages, he found them to be interesting snapshots of old Westville but seemingly irrelevant.
Then, he noticed a strange star-like symbol near the northern part of town, close to the river and down Harrison Street.
Where Millie had gone missing.
Casey stared at the star marking for a long moment, his pen hovering over the map. Then he spotted another one—this time near the fairgrounds. His pulse quickened. He grabbed another map and searched, his fingers shaking slightly.
Casey shook his head, cleared off his desk, and laid out the maps. He traced his finger down streets, through residential areas and school zones, looking for more stars.
When he found one on the east side of town, he circled it—at the intersection of Main and Water Streets, the same block Fischer’s and the Methodist Church were on. Another to the northeast, near Arrowhead Road.
On the west side, he found a star near the river, not far from the old high school and the library under construction. North of that, another one inland near the Allwood Factory, which the old map labeled as Graham Lumber.
He placed the first map over the second, creating a larger picture of old Westville. He circled the star near Devil’s Peak and the one at Prince Milling.
He sat back, staring at them for a moment. Then he found himself reaching for the police handbook on his desk and using its spine as a straightedge to connect the stars.
When he drew lines from Devil’s Peak to Main and Water, then to Prince Milling, to the riverbank, and north to the old factory, he wiped a hand over his eyes.
A perfect hexagon loomed over Westville.
His mind flashed to the business card left on his table at Fischer’s two days earlier. He fumbled through his coat pocket.
Janus Global Logistics.
He flipped it over, confirming what he remembered: a hexagon logo, the lines stylistically broken on the top right and bottom left. Below it, the slogan: “Opening doors to better futures.”
The map was dated 1892. There was no way this logistics company had been around for over a hundred years.
But here in 1996, with a girl missing, presumed dead, their main suspect a water-bloated corpse, and a terrified town wanting answers, Casey was poring over century-old municipal maps that had somehow ended up on his desk.
Only it couldn’t have been random.
And that bothered him.
Casey slapped the business card down next to the hexagon he’d drawn on the maps, then shook out all the contents of the folder.
A small slip of paper fluttered to the floor.
Casey unfolded it. The handwriting was neat, the words brief:
Some power runs deeper than it seems. Keep looking.
— Dr. H
He shot up from the desk, shoving the maps and note back into the folder.
Casey paced down the hall and poked his head into Sergeant Reynolds’ office.
“Who’s been in this morning?”
“Just the usual. Johnson clocked off the night shift a while ago, and the Chief stepped out to meet with the feds. DeYoung’s coming by in a bit.”
Casey racked his brain, trying to rationalize how the folder ended up on his desk. “No one stopped in to file a report or anything?”
“Not so far as I know. What’s going on?”
Casey shook his head. “Nothing,” he lied, something holding him back from saying more.
Walking back to his cubicle, he noticed a car parked on the street. Its engine was running, spewing thick vapor into the cold November air. Inside, he could just make out the shape of a man’s face.
Casey grabbed his coat, stormed outside, and walked up to the car. He half-expected it to speed off, but it didn’t.
The window rolled down, revealing a man with a mustache, a fading goatee, and thick-rimmed glasses.
Casey recognized him. The man from the corner booth at Fischer’s.
“Good morning, Mr. Benson,” the man said. “Heat’s on in the car if you like.”
“No thanks,” Casey said, holding up the business card. “Just want to know who the hell you are.”
He glanced at the card, then back to Casey. “A concerned citizen.”
“Who deals in old fire insurance maps?”
“I dabble in a few areas.”
“You know it’s illegal to tamper with police files, right?”
“I simply dropped off a friendly message.”
“We’ve got a kid missing, and I don’t have time for games.”
The man swallowed, rubbing his hands together. “I want to help you find her. I’d say to find the others as well, but I fear it’s too late for them.”
Casey wondered if he meant the three other missing girls, all around Millie’s age, who had vanished earlier in the year in the greater Iron Falls area.
“You have all I can give you right now. There are interested parties watching,” he said, starting the car. “Keep looking. We’ll talk soon.”
“You can’t just—”
The car drove off, leaving Casey in a plume of exhaust.
He stood there speechless for a moment before storming back inside.
Casey stared at the maps. The hexagon. The note.
Despite his frustration, a flicker of hope—or something like it—came to life inside him. This wasn’t the sort of lead he’d expected. But if, in some backward, roundabout way, this led to something about Millie—to finding her—then what did he have to lose?
The Municipal Records County building was about twenty minutes outside of town toward Iron Falls. He didn’t have much to go on, but if he could figure out who owned the properties and buildings marked with stars on those maps, maybe he’d figure out what—or who—connected them.
Casey collected the maps and stowed them in the folder, tucking it under his arm.
But when he stepped out of his cubicle, his eyes caught on a gaunt-faced man in a gray Prince Milling shirt. Red name tag: Ethan C. He was stepping out of the Chief’s office. He turned, caught Casey’s eye, and nodded with the faintest hint of a grin.
Casey tensed and stepped forward as Travis Johnson guided Ethan out of the bullpen, then down the hall toward the exit.
“Well, you were right about one thing,” Hart said.
Casey stopped, still staring off after Crawley. “What’s that?”
“He’s been living out of his truck.”
“Did Johnson bring him in?”
“Nope. Came right down to the station of his volition, about fifteen minutes ago.”
And Casey had been preoccupied with maps, notes, and doctors speeding away in cars.
“He wanted to let us know he’d seen the Thompson girl, the night she disappeared.”
“Okay, and what else?”
“That was about it. Mentioned seeing Olivia Fischer too the morning after, just like you said. Says she was trespassing.”
Casey snorted. “Just like you said.”
“Guess so. So that’s that.”
“Don’t you think it’s a little strange he decides to come in just after I ask a few questions?”
“Life is strange sometimes, Benson. This whole thing is. Just leave it be and do your job.”
Hart stepped back into his office, and Casey walked back down the hall to his car.
As he pulled out, he saw Ethan getting into his truck. Johnson, standing nearby, nodded at Casey before walking back into the station.
As Casey pulled out of the precinct lot, Crawley leered out the window of the truck, locking eyes with him for a long, uncomfortable moment before driving away.
Casey exhaled, gripping the steering wheel tighter. His gaze flicked to the folder on the passenger seat, the maps spilling slightly from its edges.
If Crawley was a dead end, here’s hoping this wasn’t.
And for Millie’s sake, it couldn’t be.
#
“Heiser’s in play,” Sarah Reeves said, lowering her binoculars as Casey Benson’s car disappeared down the main drag of town. The soft hum of the van’s engine filled the silence, her eyes narrowing as she tracked the fading plume of exhaust.
“Of course he is,” Lochlear replied from the driver’s seat, not looking up from his notebook. “You’re not surprised, are you?”
“What I’m surprised about,” Reeves said, turning to him, “is that the Director—or any number of his superiors—never rein him in.” Her voice sharpened. “Want to tell me why that is?”
Lochlear closed his notebook, his expression carefully neutral. “Some other time.”
Reeves raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. Instead, she nodded toward the road. “When do we move on Benson?”
“Not yet. Not until we have to,” Lochlear said, his tone firm. “Right now, we focus on containment at Site 73.”
Reeves paused, tapping her binoculars against her thigh as she mulled over his words. “And if we can’t contain it? What if this turns into another incursion event?”
Lochlear’s jaw tightened. “What happened in Iowa was an isolated incident.”
Reeves smirked faintly. “So far as Director Wren wants everyone to know.”
Lochlear’s glare could have cut through steel. “For now, we hold course. And we make sure Heiser doesn’t start playing scientist—or detective—with Benson.”
Reeves tilted her head, studying Lochlear for a beat too long. “You’re not worried about Benson, are you? You’re worried about Heiser.”
Lochlear said nothing, his silence louder than any answer.
Reeves leaned back in her seat, staring at the dark outline of Devil’s Peak in the distance. “It’s already spreading, you know,” she said, almost to herself. “Site 73’s breach isn’t contained. It hasn’t been for days. Benson’s already in it, whether we like it or not.”
Lochlear’s hand gripped the wheel tighter, his knuckles whitening. “Containment is still possible. If we act decisively.”
“And Heiser?” Reeves asked, her voice low.
Lochlear exhaled sharply, his eyes fixed ahead. “If Heiser steps out of line, I’ll deal with him personally.”
The radio crackled, a burst of static interrupting the tense silence. Reeves glanced at it, her fingers twitching slightly.
“Don’t get jumpy on me now, Reeves,” Lochlear said, his tone flat.
“I’m fine.”
“Good. Because whatever’s waiting at Site 73 isn’t going to care about Heiser, Benson, or any of our plans. Not yours, not mine, and sure as hell not the Director’s hesitance.”
Reeves let out a long breath. “I’m well aware of that.” She hesitated. “What about the kid?”
“There’s nothing we can do for her.”
Reeves turned to him, her eyes sharp. “You really going to feed me that line? We’re supposed to be partners.”
“And I’m the senior agent. You’re still in training. This isn’t the FBI.”
The weight of unspoken truths filled the van like a third passenger.
“Until we know exactly what we’re dealing with,” Lochlear said, breaking the silence, “we don’t move.”
Reeves bit her lip, her gaze drifting out the window to the dark sky and static on the radio hissed faintly.
Chapter 20
“There’s no way we’re going back there.”
Kyle slammed his locker shut to punctuate the point.
“Even after what we saw? What we heard?” Olivia retorted.
“Especially after that. I mean, what is wrong with you?”
She felt heat rising in her chest again, but she tried to temper it. She knew how much trouble Kyle was in now, especially after what happened to Eli. They’d agreed on the same story—that they thought it would be fun to venture into the woods on Halloween and get scared or something. No one seemed to question it.
At least not the way that Olivia—and Kyle and Austin, from the way they talked about it—were questioning themselves.
What she’d seen out there—that thing that came out of the red light—it had taken Millie. She knew that somehow. The hard part at first had been convincing herself there was any chance of getting her friend back from whatever that was, if she was even still alive.
But she’d survived. That meant Millie could have too.
“How is he?” she asked as Kyle turned to walk away. Austin had just come to join them between classes.
Kyle sighed and turned. “He’s got a broken leg, so that means he gets to sit at home all day for weeks and read and do nerdy shit. So, he’s fine, I guess.”
“I’m sorry he got hurt,” Olivia said.
“Could have been worse,” Austin offered.
“Worse how?”
“We could have not gotten out of there at all.”
Kyle swallowed. “Yeah. I mean… I’m not crazy, right? There was a freakin’ red ball of light chasing us.”
“We all saw it,” Austin said.
“The ghost-witch,” Olivia added, pulling out the book Austin had found. “Or whatever it was you called it.”
Austin cleared his throat. “Skadegamutc.”
“Gesundheit,” Kyle said.
Austin explained what he had told Olivia over the weekend, and she recounted all that had happened when she was down that ravine with Eli, including the fact that her flashlight seemed to make it go away, almost like it burned away the shadow.
“It’s just like my grandpa used to say in the old legends.”
“We know how to hurt it now, though,” Olivia said.
“A flashlight? Seriously? Great, we’ll just blind the ghost-witch to death. Problem solved.”
“It worked, believe me or not. It’s probably the only reason Eli and I are still here.”
“I don’t know if we should go back there,” Austin said.
“You too?”
“Just not yet. We need to know more.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know… like what it really wants.”
Olivia shrugged and threw herself back against the lockers, the hallways emptying further as the bell rang for fourth period.
“There is that old legend,” Kyle said. “The Ottawa Treasure.”
Austin shook his head. “My grandpa said that may have been exaggerated.”
“So are all legends. Doesn’t mean there’s not some truth to them.” Kyle pulled out the book they’d taken from the library last week: Native American Myths and Legends.
“Says right here that when the settlers of Westville bought the land from the Odawa tribes”—he glanced up at Austin and gave him a knowing look.
Austin returned a flat stare.
Kyle shrugged and kept reading. “Says the chief worried his tribesmen would squander the money. So he hid it away. Then they tortured him to death and could never find it.”
“Seems like a good plan,” Olivia remarked.
“Then they realized the error of their ways and buried the chieftain sitting upright, so that he’d always look out for them even in death.”
“So, was the treasure ever found?” Austin asked.
“Figured you would know that.”
“Because I’m half Indian?”
“Well…”
“Alright, hold on,” Olivia said, snatching the book away from Kyle. She turned toward Austin. “Your grandpa believed Devil’s Peak was haunted by a spirit. Like the… thing.”
“Skadegamutc.”
“Sure. And it’s a dead sorcerer that doesn’t want to stay dead, right?”
Austin nodded. “Yeah, that’s what the Odawa believed anyway.”
“So what if he made a deal with someone for the treasure? In exchange for… I don’t know what.”
“Seems pretty thin,” Kyle remarked.
“Well, then you do better.”
“Keep reading. They found the chief, buried underneath Main Street.”
Olivia scanned down to the bottom of the page. 1938. Excavated during a sewer project. At the corner of Main and Water Streets.
Right near the Methodist Church, and where Fischer’s Café was now.
“Weird.”
“Right?”
Austin leaned in. “But no treasure?”
“Says it was never found.”
Kyle shrugged. “Or they just kept it a secret.”
“Let’s move it,” said Mrs. Summers from down the hall as the last chime of the last bell ended.
The rest of the day went by with Olivia wondering what else might buried in Westville that no one knew about—and what it had to do with Millie.
After school, Olivia led the way across the river to the library.
Kyle and Austin carried load after load of books about Westville history over to one of the tables in the corner, while Olivia pored over one particular volume. There was mention of the first settlers in Westville, which at the time was called Dansville, apparently. Named after—Daniel Thompson.
“You think this guy is related to Millie?” Olivia said, holding up the page.
“Probably,” Kyle grunted as he set down the books. Austin followed suit.
“Maybe he started Prince Milling.”
Olivia shook her head. “That’s the thing.” She pointed to another name, Thomas Prince. “This guy did.”
“Guess that tracks,” said Austin. “Wondered why it was called Prince.”
“Says here that Arthur Thompson, Daniel’s son, bought the Milling Company from Thomas Prince in 1902. After a series of fires burned down the Mill.”
“And half the town right along with it,” said an energetic voice from behind her.
She turned to see Eli, the slight boy hobbling over on crutches with a grin on his face.
“What are you doing here?” Kyle asked.
“Returning a few books and grabbing some new ones. That’s what you do at a library.”
“Well, yeah, but I meant—”
“Ah, this?” Eli said. “This is nothing. Those are some good books you got there,” he said, hopping over and pointing to the pile. “Read them a few times.”
Austin cocked his head. “You’ve read all of these?”
“Sure. Good to know about where you live, right?”
Kyle crossed his arms. “Why does that not surprise me.”
Olivia perked up. “You know a lot about the history of the town?”
“I guess you could say that. What do you want to know?”
“The Ottawa Treasure. We’ve been trying to—”
“Ah yes, the Ottawa Treasure. Classic story,” Eli said.
Kyle cut him off. “We already know about the chief hiding the money and getting killed. What else?”
“They buried him under Main Street.”
“Knew that too,” Kyle said.
“Ah. Well, then I guess you probably also already know about who found the treasure.”
“No,” Olivia said, standing up now. “Who?”
He pointed down to the page that she had open. “There was a book by Nicholas Graham, the first mayor of Westville, who attested that Arthur Thompson found the treasure, or made a deal with one of the remaining tribesmen who had. Says he used it to buy up the Mill after the great fire of 1902.”
Olivia stood there stunned for a moment. “You know where that book would be in here?” she asked.
“That’s the thing… I checked it out a couple years ago and wanted to give it another read, but the librarian said the three copies they had were lost.”
“All of them?”
Eli nodded. “Too bad. It was a good one.”
Austin was looking out the window at the darkening overcast sky. “Made a deal for the treasure…” He glanced back at Olivia. “What does that sound like to you?”
“Skadegamutc,” Kyle said.
The grandfather clock in the corner rang and startled them all.
Olivia’s mind whirred. The Thompsons and the Ottawa Treasure. This ghost-witch.
It was all connected. Somehow.
Her pulse jumped in time with the tick of the clock, and she glanced at the time—5:15 p.m. Mom would kill her for being late again while she was grounded, but these threads in her mind wouldn’t untangle.
What was a little longer if it meant piecing this together?
She checked out a couple of the books, leaving the rest for the others to take home. On her way out, she stopped at the payphone in the vestibule of the library, complete with a Westville phonebook.
She traced her fingers down the “B”s until she found “Benson, Casey,” read the numbers and the street, got her bearings, and started walking.
Chapter 21
Janus Global Logistics.
Casey stared down at the name on document after document spread across his kitchen table. The company held the deed to Robinson’s Gravel, the Matwood factory, and now there was talk of buying up the riverfront property—including the old, condemned high school.
And then there was Prince Milling. On paper, it looked squeaky clean—Jack Thompson owned it all outright through Prince Incorporated. But it was marked on the Sanborn maps, just like the others. Three of those spots were owned by Janus.
From what he could piece together, Janus Global had formed in the mid-’80s, rising to prominence as a high-end logistics firm with a roster of elite clients, even some government contracts. But that was the other oddity. Of all their holdings, only these in Westville were complete outliers: the Slate River ruins, a factory that barely broke even, and a gravel pit in nowhere, Michigan.
Two more map locations gnawed at him, too: the intersection of Water and Main, where Fischer’s faced off against the Methodist Church, and a shadowed patch of woods along the North Country Trail, near the Scout cabin.
No matter how he tried to brush it off, each time he traced his finger along the upper left line of the hexagon these places formed, a chill seeped through him. Especially there—where he’d found Millie’s things. Where, one fog-choked morning, he’d heard whispers and seen a flicker of red dancing in the trees. You’re the guilty ones…
Now his house was lined with maps, public records, a cascade of paper and ink tying him to the walls. He knew he looked like some lunatic conspiracy theorist. But he couldn’t shake the feeling—something about this didn’t sit right.
Millie. Prince. Janus Global.
A girl gone missing. A man dead in the river. And the feds, doing nothing but stirring up silt, grilling his department with endless, empty questions.
A knock at the back door.
Casey pulled the blinds back to see pale eyes through thick glasses, a goatee framing a tense smile. He cracked the door open.
“Mr. Benson,” said the man, voice soft. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”
“First you take off in your car; now you show up here unannounced. What gives?”
“We were being watched.”
“And you know where I live, just like that?”
“Working for a federal agency has its perks.”
Casey raised a brow. “So you are with Lochlear and Reeves.”
“Not exactly,” the man said, pushing up his glasses. “It’s more complicated than that.”
“Then uncomplicate it,” Casey shot back, crossing his arms.
The man extended his hand. “Dr. Gregory Heiser, Dimensional Containment Bureau. Research Division.”
Casey relunctantly shook the man’s car warmed hand. “Containment of what, exactly?”
“May I come in?” Dr. Heiser asked, his gaze flicking to the maps and papers strewn about. “I see you’re hard at work.”
Casey glanced back at the chaos. “You here to help me make sense of this, or just leave me with more riddles?”
“There’s always another question,” Dr. Heiser said, stepping into the room. “But let’s see if we can find a few answers first. Shall we?”
“Why don’t you start by telling me about these Fire Insurance maps?”
“Yes. Interesting aren’t they? They were color coded and designed in such a way as to convey the highest amount of detail and information possible in a small footprint.”
“Sure. But what I’m wondering is what these have to do with a missing girl.”
Heiser’s eyes fell to the one Casey had drawn on. “I think you’re already getting on just fine.”
“Did you make those markings?”
“No. They were on the originals that I found. These are copies.”
“Those locations,” Casey said, pointing to the angles of the hexagon, “Most of them are property or buildings owned by this Janus Global.”
“Go on,” Heiser said.
“Why don’t you just tell me?”
“I have to assume we are being surveilled at any given point. Or at least, that I am.”
“Great,” Casey breathed. “Ok well, we’ve got two of the major industry staples in Westville, a gravel company outside of town, two locations off in the woods, and the cross section of two streets near the Methodist church. I’m coming up short on a connection.”
“If I may offer a theory—and mind you it is just that, it may not be so much about what’s there, and more about where they happen to be.”
“I don’t follow.”
Heiser pulled out a chair and plopped down. He gestured down to one of the other chairs. Casey sat.
“Have you ever heard of leylines, Mr. Benson?”, voice lowered.
“Enlighten me.”
“Many years ago now, an archeologist by the name of Alfred Watkins proposed a theory. Energy lines all across the globe, running between certain landmarks, historical structures of places of great cultural and religious importance. Often, they form uncanny geometric patterns when transposed on top of one another.”
Casey glanced down at the hexagon outlining most of Westville.
“It just so happens that your little town falls on the intersection of three very powerful leylines. A confluence of streams. What we at the Bureau would call a Location of Power. LoP for short.”
Casey stood, blank faced, unsure suddenly whether this guy was the real deal.
“Uh huh. What kind of power are we talking here?”
“Pathways. Keys to other places. Doors to other dimensions, to be precise.”
“So your… Bureau is it?”
“Yes.”
“You stop these doors from being opened.”
“Yes. Well we try.”
“And what about Janus?”
Another interested party. They tend to—well it’s there on there card.”
“Open doors,” Casey said. “So why haven’t you shut them down.”
“It’s complicated.”
Casey shook his head. “Unbelievable.”
“It is quite a bit to wrap your head around at first, I know.”
“No what I mean is I’m wasting time talking about some sci-fi movie that never got made while I could be making headway on this case.”
Heiser turned away from the maps, stood, and met Casey’s gaze.
“Have you ever heard or seen anything, Mr. Benson that you couldn’t explain? Something that you could have written off as some trick of the light or the mind or the eyes, a sound that in the distance that sounded wrong and unlike anything you’d ever heard, but told yourself it was nothing?”
Casey was back by the scout cabin all of the sudden, the morning Millie had gone missing.
He didn’t answer, but he could tell Heiser knew. Somehow.
There was another series of knocks at the door, this time more frantic.
“Friends of yours?”, Casey hissed.
“No I—it’s possible I could have been followed. But I was careful.”
“Not careful enough apparently.”
Casey crept over to the door, peeled back the blinds the slightest little bit, and saw Olivia Fischer standing there.
He cursed under his breath and opened it.
#
Olivia didn’t wait for Casey to say anything before shoving past him into the house, her heart racing.
She stopped abruptly in the kitchen, her gaze darting to the explosion of maps and papers sprawled across the table. The sight made her pause, but only for a moment.
“It’s about Millie. And the Skadegamu—Skadega… Skadda…”
Casey raised an eyebrow as he shut the door behind her. “The what?”
“Ah screw it.” She spun to face him, gesturing wildly. “The ghost-witch! I just came from the library. And there’s something else—Arthur Thompson.”
“Olivia—” Casey started, his tone already laced with exasperation.
“Just listen!” she snapped, stepping closer. “Arthur Thompson, Millie’s great great something grandpa. He made a deal with the ghost-witch. The thing you’re looking for—it’s tied to him! There’s an old book in the library—or there was—it had records from when he—”
“Enough,” Casey said, his voice cutting her off like a blade.
Olivia froze, her frustration boiling under the surface. She was about to fire back when a man’s voice, calm and measured, interrupted from behind her.
“That’s quite an accusation.”
Olivia spun, startled, to see a stranger sitting at the kitchen table, his thick glasses catching the light as he watched her with quiet interest. How had she missed him?
“Who the hell is this?” she demanded, taking a step back.
“One. None of your business. Two. Watch your mouth,” Casey said quickly, rubbing his temples. He grabbed the phone from the counter and started dialing. “I’m calling Aly to come pick you up.”
“What? No! I’m not leaving!” Olivia shot back, her voice rising. “This is important!”
Casey’s sharp glare stopped her cold. “You are. This isn’t the time.”
She clenched her fists, her pulse pounding in her ears. “You’re seriously just ignoring me?”
“You’ve made your point. Let it go.”
Olivia glared at him, then turned her attention to the man at the table, who had been silently watching their exchange.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
The man adjusted his glasses, his expression almost amused. “Dr. Gregory Heiser,” he said evenly. “And you must be Olivia Fischer.”
Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know my name?”
Casey hung up the phone with a sigh and turned to Heiser. “Don’t encourage her.”
“I’m not,” Heiser replied, tilting his head. “But Ms. Fischer’s claims are… intriguing. You might want to hear her out.”
Casey rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, “This was a mistake.”
“There’s something weird going on, Casey,” Olivia insisted, her frustration boiling over. “You know it too. I saw the look on your face when I told you about what happened in the woods. You believe me. You saw it, didn’t you?”
Heiser gave him a knowing look. Casey’s jaw tightened, and he hesitated before answering. “I may have heard something. That first morning. But it was nothing. Just the stress.”
“Do not be too quick to dismiss your instincts,” Heiser interjected, his calm voice cutting through the tension.
Before Olivia could respond, the sound of tires crunching on the gravel outside broke the silence.
Casey glanced out the window. “That’s Aly. Let’s go.”
“I’m not done—”
“Yes, you are.” Casey opened the door and gestured for her to leave, his expression making it clear the discussion was over.
Fuming, Olivia stomped outside, brushing past Aly as she stepped out of her car.
#
“Well,” Heiser said, giving Casey a thin smile. “I’ll leave you to handle… this. I’ll be in touch.”
As he stepped past Aly, she furrowed her brow, then smiled and said hello, calling him by his first name.
Heiser stopped mid-step, nodded politely, and climbed into his car.
Casey froze, staring at her. “Greg?”
Aly nodded. “He’s been coming into the café for a couple months now. Said he’s in town on business. Nice guy, but kinda quiet. What was he doing here?”, she asked, concern feathering her jaw.
Casey didn’t respond, his jaw tight as Heiser’s taillights disappeared down the street. “Just stopped, asking for directions.”
Aly didn’t buy it. “Another thing you can’t tell me?”
“It’s not worth talking about.”
“Right,” Aly said. “Sorry about—”
“It’s fine. She’s a kid.”
“You doing okay?” Aly asked.
“I need to sleep a while before my shift,” Casey muttered. He glanced at her with a weary smile. “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.”
Aly smiled faintly. “Yeah, we do.”
Before Casey could say more, Olivia rolled down the window of Aly’s car, leaning out with an exasperated look. “Just get back together already!”
Casey shut the door and turned toward his house, shaking his head
Inside, the kitchen was silent, the maps and documents still spread out across the table.
He folded up the one marked with the hexagonal shape, the six locations on the points, and set it by his keys.
A nap and a cup of coffee later, Casey started his patrol car, the map in his passenger seat.
Casey veered right out of the station garage.
Straight for the Allwell factory.
Trucks came down this way regularly, making deliveries. Presently, cars were coming and going, the automated barrier rising and falling as the night shift took over.
Casey didn’t know what he was looking for, exactly. He just knew he couldn’t barge in and start asking questions—not when he was already on thin ice.
He pulled off to the side of the road, cutting his engine and lights. From here, he could see the quiet orange glow of the factory’s parking lot below and the still, ridged walls of the sprawling building, steam rising from rooftop vents. Downriver, Prince Milling glowed red like a watchful eye in the night.
To his left, movement caught his attention. A truck pulled onto a thin cement drive winding through the middle of the cemetery.
Casey frowned. Midnight graveside visits weren’t exactly common in Westville—or anywhere, for that matter. He doubted whoever it was had seen him, his car partially obscured by the pines that lined the edges of the lot.
For a while, Casey just watched.
The driver killed the truck’s headlights and climbed out, moved toward a cluster of headstones, shovel glinting faintly in the moonlight.
The sharp crack of metal meeting earth broke the quiet.
Casey rolled down his window, the cold air biting at his skin.
He shouldn’t get involved, not without backup. But he didn’t trust himself to wait.
Sliding out of the car, Casey crept along the edge of the path, staying near the trees. He dipped behind the taller headstones, his breath fogging in the cold air. His fingers brushed the flashlight clipped to his belt.
He steadied himself, then flicked it on.
The beam slashed through the dark, landing on a figure mid-dig.
“Westville Police,” Casey barked, his voice cutting through the night. His other hand hovered near his holster. “Drop the shovels and put your hands up.”
The man froze, straightening slowly. A wool mask obscured his face, and he raised an arm to shield his eyes from the light.
Casey took a cautious step forward. “I said, drop the shovel—”
The crack came out of nowhere.
Blinding pain shot through Casey’s skull as something hard and metal slammed into the side of his head.
He hit the ground, ears ringing, vision swimming. Gravel bit into his palms as he tried to steady himself, his flashlight rolling uselessly away.
When his vision cleared, he saw a second man standing over him, another shovel in hand.
Casey blinked up at him, disoriented.
The man peeled off his wool mask, revealing a familiar, sneering face.
Ethan Crawley.
“Evenin’, officer.”
Before Casey could move, Crawley raised his boot.
The last thing Casey saw was it coming down hard on his face, and his world dissolved into blackness.
NEXT EPISODE: The Girl in the River (Coming Soon)