by G. M. Moore
Ghosts
of Manitowish
Waters
G.M. Moore
Ghosts of Manitowish Waters
Copyright © 2014 By G.M. Moore
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
ISBN: 1500218138
ISBN 13: 978-1500218133
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014913704
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, North Charleston, SC
Printed in the United States of America
Chapter One
The screen door banged shut loudly behind her, but Tess O’Brien didn’t pay it any attention. Head down and hands stuffed into her jacket pockets, she made long, determined strides away from the house and away from her father’s lecturing voice. Her breath left smoky wisps in the chilly morning air as she huffed in a clipped whisper.
“I can’t ever do anything.”
The wind blew strands of blond hair across her face and into her mouth. Tess puffed them out and pushed them away again and again. It was the same fight, always the same fight, she thought bitterly, and kicked the tires on a four-wheeler parked near the old shed as she passed. Her hair continued to swirl around her, batting her face and sticking in her mouth and eyes.
“Oh, would you just stop. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” she swore at the wind, securing the wayward hair behind her ears.
The fight with her dad was always the same, and it had to do with one thing: Tess was growing up. She was fifteen, and her father could not deal with it. The fights had started with the cell phone she had wanted when she was thirteen. All her friends were getting them, but no, not Tess. She was left out—left out of the calls, the texts, the gossip, the plans. And he wonders why I’m a loner? she questioned silently, walking a few more steps before answering herself out loud.
“Maybe because I don’t have a phone. Huh, Dad? Maybe that’s why?” He had one, but all it did was sit in the charger. “For emergencies,” he would say.
“Yeah, right,” she huffed and then abruptly stopped, looking around sheepishly.
She was talking aloud to herself—again. It was becoming a habit. Did anyone hear that? her mind questioned. No, silly, of course not, it answered. No one was around, not even her father now. He would have left for work. She was alone, always alone.
Got to watch that, she silently scolded. People will think I’m nuts if I keep wandering around talking to myself. She thought about that for a second, then snorted. Who am I kidding? They already think I’m nuts. Here comes that sad, cell phone-less Tess. A far away look clouded her eyes as her hands absently adjusted the yellow plaid scarf encircling her neck. The movement brought her out of her thoughts for a moment. She sighed heavily. And there’s that. The ever-present scarf. Can’t forget that. Tess bit her lip and continued her silent rant. So, here comes sad, scarred, phone—oh, wait—car-less, let’s not forget car-less. Her green eyes grew vacant as her mind drifted back into thought. Got to have car-less in there, too. Here comes sad, scarred, phone-less, and car-less Tess.
It was obvious that her dad was never going to let her drive, or learn to drive, or drive with anyone under the age of forty. That was the catalyst for this installment of “The Fight.” She had wanted to go to Superior, the big city, with her friend Ann. School was out in less than three weeks, and today, for once, they had a Friday Teacher’s Institution Day and had made plans for a harmless shopping trip. But the harmlessness of it all ended as soon as Tess mentioned Ann’s eighteen-year-old sister would be driving.
“No good comes from a car full of teens.”
She could hear her father’s forbidding voice and see that pained, knowing look in his eyes. She knew that look very well. It told her not to push it, to drop it, to just let it lie. That look scolded her for even asking the question, for even daring to broach such a subject—because Tess and Robert O’Brien knew better than anyone what teens, cars, and cell phones could lead to.
Tess’s foot hit a large rock embedded in the ground, and she stumbled forward. The jolt brought her back to her surroundings. She had left the backyard and walked through an adjoining field to where a series of orange, diamond-shaped signs marked the path of an all-terrain vehicle trail. She turned right and followed the trail into the woods. This ATV trail would take her to the Yellow River—if she wanted to walk that far, and maybe today she would—but for now her sights were set on a secluded meadow, well off the designated path.
She continued down the trail for about half a mile. White pine, spruce, and just budding trees flanked her on either side. It was mid-May and the north woods of Wisconsin were still waking up. Wild ginger, buttercups, jack-in-the-pulpits, violets, and wood anemone dotted the forest floor. She looked at the still-bare trees filling the sky and wondered when they would pop green. Every year she waited for that moment, and every year it snuck just past her. One day she’d notice that the sky was filled with green, fluttering leaves and would wonder when it had happened.
Tess came to a fork in the trail, one someone speeding by on a four-wheeler likely would not notice. The right fork, the ATV trail, was clear and marked with an arrow. The left fork was blocked with fallen trees, the path beyond overgrown and narrow. Without hesitating, Tess climbed over the trees and left the ATV trail behind. Dead leaves and twigs crunching under her feet, she walked for another ten minutes, and then the forest slowly began to thin. Densely packed trees gave way to brush and charred, jagged trunks, the remains of a long ago fire. This section of the path would fill most people with a sense of dread—it was like walking through a forest of corpses, all of them twisted and scarred from a horrible death—but it gave Tess a sense of peace and of hope. She understood these trees. She was one of the scarred. And she knew what lay beyond. Tess walked a little farther, and slowly the burnt remains of the forest morphed into a meadow filled with wild flowers. Out of the ashes, she thought, a small grin spreading across her face. She gazed for a moment at the blanket of bright color and then, with a deep breath, ran, arms outstretched, into the openness.
Tess loved this small isolated patch of forest. It was the only place where she truly felt free, where she could do whatever she wanted. She snuck away to it whenever she had the chance. She didn’t know of anyone else who came here—definitely not her father. It was all hers and it represented what she so badly needed in her life. Here was a place, much like her own family, destroyed and disfigured by tragedy, but yet it thrived. Here it was, surrounded by the charred remains of the past, but still it moved forward. It moved beautifully forward.
Not something the O’Brien clan does very well, she scoffed.
Tess sat among the flowers and surveyed the small meadow. In a few months, blueberry bushes loaded with fruit would fill the area. And then the raspberries would come, ripening on the thorny vines that spiraled around and over the area’s bushes and struggling saplings. Tess took in the delicate, sweet smell of bluebells and began gathering wild flowers for a bouquet. She tried to keep her mind blank and away from “The Fight,” b
ut it drifted there again and again. Soon she was lost in thought, her mind filled with the drama of having an unreasonable father and the unfairness of life in general.
Her bouquet now brimming with yellow, purple, and blue blossoms, Tess crawled forward to reach for another bloom when gunfire rang through the meadow. Her head quickly popped up, and she froze on hands and knees. She had heard shots earlier, but they had seemed faint and far away. Her mind had noted and dismissed them. It wasn’t hunting season, but there was a quarry not too far away and many in the area used it for target practice. These shots were closer, though—much closer. Eyes sparkling and alert, Tess cocked her head to listen. Did she hear voices? There was rustling. She definitely heard rustling. Or maybe it was running? Whatever it was, she knew one thing for sure: it was getting closer.
Flowers fell from her hand as Tess stretched her lean body upward and peered cautiously over the grasses and foxtails surrounding her.
Nothing.
Then suddenly, a blur of white streaked across the meadow. The ground vibrated under her as the animal charged forward. Tess’s eyes widened and a breath left her body in a short gasp.
It was headed right for her!
Tess quickly dropped to the ground and rolled into a protective ball as the white blur ran just inches passed her. The pounding abruptly stopped, and she heard the animal collapse to the ground a few feet away.
What was that?
She stayed as she was for a moment, curled in a fetal position, afraid to look up but finally raising her head. She couldn’t see the animal but could hear its labored breathing, smell its fear, and hear it struggling in her meadow. It’s trying to stand, she concluded. But it can’t because it’s …
It’s been shot!
Her shocked mind connected the dots with a jolt, and she tried, quickly and quietly, to crawl in the direction of the injured animal. Soon, from out of the brush and wildflowers, she saw a hoof, then a leg…
Tess’s face twisted with confusion. Without thinking she stood up to get a better look at the animal. Gunfire rang out again. Startled, she turned away from the creature and toward the sound when a hand closed over her mouth and pulled her swiftly to the ground.
Chapter Two
“Kill shot!”
A large, meaty hand slapped Wesley Thayer on the back and then clamped firmly down on his shoulder. That meaty hand shook him back and forth until he pulled away in a slight cower. Head down, he eyed his father with a sideways glance. His eyes narrowed into slits when he saw the smug, all too familiar grin filling the man’s face.
“That’s how it’s done, Wes. Right there. Text book.”
With that, Clyde Thayer slung the rifle over his shoulder and tromped passed his son.
Still cowering, Wes watched the man’s camouflaged figure disappear into the woods. Once he was completely out of sight, Wes straightened up, hesitating a moment longer before following. Just as he took a step forward, another meaty hand slapped him on the back, knocking him off balance. Wes stumbled forward.
“Butch! Damn it,” he huffed.
Butch gave him a toothy, tobacco-specked smile. He spit into a plastic Coke bottle half full of brownish-yellow fluid. “That there’s the money,” Butch said, pointing to where Clyde had been. He pumped his fist in the air, yelled “Meat House!” and took off in an awkwardly slow run.
Wes rolled his eyes as he watched Butch and his belly bounce after Clyde. They really need to let that go, he thought. Meat House? It’s more like Fat House. These guys were in their late forties and still living for their high school glory days. Good God, he smirked. He was only twenty-two years old and high school meant nothing to him—not anymore. Did he have good memories? Sure. But he had done other things since high school—more important things, like graduating from the University of Wisconsin. He had moved on. So why can’t they? Wes shrugged in puzzlement and started after the two men. He had been back home for only two weeks and already was sick of the meatheads of the Meat House. If I have to listen to one more story about the great defensive line of the 1979 State Champion Warriors, I’m going to puke. He reflected on that thought for a moment, then hung his head shamefully. His professors at UW would do more than that if they saw him now. Here he was with his big degree in wildlife management, hunting deer illegally. And this wasn’t just any deer. This was a rare, protected deer—an illegal double whammy if you will. But he didn’t have a choice. Did he?
No, he answered himself. Never did. Poaching was the family business. Family first, he grumbled sourly. That’s what his father would say, and his father would be very quick to point out that poaching got Wes his fancy college degree.
A gunshot rang out, and Wes heard his father yell. “What the—Butch! Put that gun down. It was a kill shot. KILL SHOT. What are you trying to do? Get the whole town out here?”
Wes chuckled. That’s Tweedle Dumb for ya. Yaaaay, Meat House!
He continued his slow, steady pace through the woods until he caught up with the two other men. At the sound of Wes’s approach, Clyde turned back with a reproachful look.
“ ‘Bout time. You get lost? Need to take a piss or somethin’?”
Wes glared but didn’t answer. He settled into a slightly cowered stance as his father stormed toward him.
“Idiots. I’m working with idiots. That deer hasn’t got much run in her. Take Butch and track her. She’ll drop. Take the carcass to the old logging road. And be careful with it,” he ordered. “Don’t drag it. Carry it. It’s going to be stuffed. Full body.”
Clyde gave Wes a confirmation nod but didn’t wait for a response. He brushed by, knocking Wes in the shoulder as he passed and waving a walkie-talkie in the air.
“I’m getting the jeep. Let me know your position.”
Wes never moved. He just turned his head away from Clyde and toward Butch, who stood a few feet away. Butch spit into his plastic bottle, fumbled it, and spilled brownish-yellow liquid down the front of his camouflage sweatshirt. “Ah, shi-it,” he groaned, flicking tobacco bits and juice from his chest. Wes rolled his eyes.
“Come on, Butch.” He motioned the man forward. “It’s time for us grunts to get to work.”
Chapter Three
The hand covering Tess’s mouth loosened, and she turned on her attacker wild eyed and ready for a fight. Their faces were now just inches apart, her green eyes locked intently on his hazel ones. He held one finger to his mouth and whispered, “Tess, shhhhh.”
She gulped, the fight instantly draining from her body. He knew her name? How did he know her name?
He motioned for her to follow him. She did so quietly and without hesitating, and soon the two were crouched side by side behind a group of mossy boulders hidden among the blackened, twisted trees and the brushy growth surrounding them.
Tess turned to look at his chiseled profile, the square jaw, the rugged nose. His dark brown hair was slightly greasy and hung in scruffy layered waves down to his chin. The shortest pieces hit just under his eyes. The way those pieces frame his hazel eyes… Tess drifted into a dreamy daze, then quickly snapped herself out of it. Get a grip, she scolded. But that was difficult to do because Cain Mathews knew who she was. How was that possible? she wondered. Tess was a freshman and a nobody at Northwoods High School. The campus drew from towns across the county and had more than 1,500 students, so it just wasn’t possible that he knew her by name. He was a junior. And he wasn’t just any junior, she reminded herself. Cain Mathews was one of those bad boys; half Ojibwe Indian, he was a loner so aloof that he was the constant topic of gossip. Yet, here she was with him at her side. Tess’s mouth felt dry, and she had to swallow hard before speaking.
“What’s going on?” she partly croaked, partly whispered, then laughed nervously. “You scared me.”
He nodded toward where the animal had fallen. “Poachers,” he whispered.
Her cheeks flushed red. In les
s than two minutes she had forgotten all about the strange creature lying just a few yards away. “Whaa whaa what is it?” Tess stammered, took a quick breath, and then asked, “Is it a deer? From what I saw, it looked like a deer.”
Cain nodded.
“Will it live?”
He shook his head. “No, it’s likely dead already. Hit just above the heart.”
“What’s wrong with it?” she asked, then rolled her eyes at the stupidity of the question. “I mean besides being shot,” she quickly explained. “Its hoofs, they’re pink.”
“It’s a woods ghost,” Cain stated matter of fact, then turned to her and saw the puzzlement in her face. “An albino deer. Very rare and very sacred.” He put his hand on the back of her head and gently pushed. “Stay down and stay quiet. They’re coming.”
Tess crouched lower and waited, scanning the clearing for whoever was about to enter. The steady lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub of her beating heart vibrated through her body. Her ears pounded. Her skin prickled. Then, with one quick inhale, everything stopped. Tess held her breath as a small, ghostly figure emerged timidly from the woods. The small, white fawn stood out sharply against the blackened trees. It was so fragile, so vulnerable looking that Tess immediately began to rise. A hand firmly gripped her arm and forced her back down.
“But…” she whined, pulling slightly against the hand holding her. She looked down at Cain’s hand, then turned her gaze upward. Tess saw fear flicker across his face. He never looked directly at her, just shook his head no as he watched the fawn. Tension emanated from him. She looked down at his hand again and felt the grip loosen, but the hand did not leave her arm.
The two teens watched the albino fawn creep across the meadow on spindly legs. Its large, pink ears twitched back and forth as its pink nose lifted in the air. It came to an abrupt stop, then pranced almost playfully on pink hooves to where the doe had fallen. Tess couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She had lived near Spooner her whole life and had never seen an albino deer, had only heard stories. Now, within twenty minutes, she had seen two of the mystical creatures. Unbelievable.