Ghosts of Manitowish Waters

by G. M. Moore

  Wes watched him walk away and then raise a chin to Ben as he passed him in the doorway. Ben returned to the booth and slid three beers onto the tabletop and himself into the seat across from Wes. “Where’s he going?”

  “School banquet.”

  Ben gave a disgruntled huff, then reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “You hear about that girl gone missing over in Spooner?” He unfolded the paper and passed it across the table. “They’ve got these up at the bar.”

  Wes looked at the paper and into the face of a pretty blond girl. He wondered if this was the girl Uncle Earl had seen.

  “They’re saying a guy’s involved. Might be a kidnapping.”

  Wes’s stomach clenched as his thoughts drifted to T-Rex. Where was he and what had he done?

  “She was last seen near the Chippewa—” Ben paused. “Hey, wait. This doesn’t have anything to do with…”

  “It might,” Wes said without looking up.

  Ben dropped lower over the table. “No way,” he whispered.

  Wes met his eyes with a pained smile. “I’ve got something to talk to you about.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  As Tess had promised, the two teens quickly regained any time they had lost at the cabin. The next day, they both walked with renewed vigor and purpose, easily making it passed Butternut Lake by midmorning.

  To Cain’s relief, they were able to bypass the small village of Butternut without seeing a soul. With Tess reported missing, he knew the police were involved now and an arrest warrant likely had been issued—for him. He didn’t think it would take the police long to put the two teens together. He and Tess had come across several people in the last few days. Someone would recognize them, no doubt about that. And Cain had missed a court date. Not good, he lamented. He wasn’t ready for the police, not yet anyway, and he wasn’t ready for Tess to leave. She was with him for a reason. He understood that now. He knew the spirits had called her, and he wouldn’t let her go until her journey—whatever it might be—was completed.

  With his we-eh’s compass pointing due east, he set their course for the Turtle Flambeau Flowage about 10 miles away. The lake covered almost 13,000 acres, and the path they would take to it led through nothing but remote forest. The chance of them seeing someone was slim.

  As the pair walked, Cain’s thoughts went to the map he carried, retracing the course he had planned out. Once they neared the flowage, they would avoid Springstead by cutting north and heading to the less populated part of the lake. It wasn’t the most direct route, he knew, but it was the most isolated one. Once we clear the flowage, we’ll make our way to the Manitowish River and follow it down—

  “Hey!” Tess’s voice cut in. “Look.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him forward. “An old barn. Come on.”

  “Tess, we don’t have time,” he said, dragging after her. “We need to keep moving.”

  “I know.”

  She turned to him with a face lit up with enthusiasm. How was he supposed to say no to that? He knew he couldn’t.

  “It’s almost lunch,” she said. “Wouldn’t it be cool to eat here?”

  “It’s eleven,” he countered.

  “Well, I’m hungry.” She looked to the fawn. “He’s hungry.”

  “He’s always hungry.”

  “Pleeeeaaasssse,” she begged, not knowing he had already given in.

  He simply shrugged. “Why not.”

  He barely had the words out before she and the fawn took off running. He adjusted the weight of his backpack and hers on his shoulders before jogging after them. Sometime yesterday he had started carrying her gear as well. He couldn’t remember exactly when or why.

  They broke out of the woods at the back of a large graying barn. Its wood flaked with paint, and Cain scraped off chips of its once vibrant red color as he passed alongside it. Moving at a sprinter’s pace, Tess and the fawn quickly disappeared around the far side of the structure. When Cain finally turned the corner he stopped, taking in the secluded clearing before him and watching Tess and the fawn prance playfully through the tall grass and colorful wild flowers. It looked very much like the meadow where he had first met Tess just days earlier. And now, watching her, it hit him. She was different today. More carefree, more lively, more something—he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

  Then he noticed her hair.

  She wore her hair up in a high ponytail today. It usually fell loosely, cascading well past her shoulders.

  Then he noticed her clothes.

  She wasn’t wearing the long sleeve waffle shirt. Today, she wore only the T-shirt, and its neckline scooped down across her collarbone.

  She had been letting him see more of the scar today, and he hadn’t even realized it. That’s such a guy thing, he scolded himself. Not noticing. Stupid, stupid. He opened his mouth to call out to her, but then thought better of it. Maybe I’m not so stupid? Maybe this time not noticing something is a good thing.

  Tess turned back, beckoning him with her hand as she reached the front of the barn. “Hurry up! You’ve got to see this.” Then she and the fawn disappeared again. Cain broke into a sprint and soon rounded the front of the barn himself. He stopped short and his mouth dropped open when the pretty meadow abruptly gave way to a dusty lot packed with rusty junk.

  “It’s hoarder heaven,” he whispered, lowering the packs he carried to the ground and walking with rapt amazement through the maze of car parts, farm equipment, and just plain junk. He saw a wringer washing machine, an Amish buggy, and a Coke machine that dispensed actual bottles. Every inch of ground held something, leaving barely space to walk. Everything was in a state of collapse as if it could disappear into the earth at any moment.

  “Ummmm, Cain.”

  The edge in Tess’s voice caught his attention, and he quickly scanned the barnyard until his eyes fell on her. She stood stiffly, hands held up by her shoulders, in front of the barrel of a rifle and the old woman who held it.

  “Whoa,” he called out. “Hold on. Don’t point that at her.” He swore under his breath, maneuvering swiftly through the corroded relics at his feet to Tess. He had tried so hard to keep them away from people today, leading them into the remotest woodland, and still they managed to find this crazy lady.

  “You just slow down, mister. Hear me. Just slow down,” the owner of the gun ordered. “I don’t want any trouble here. I just want you off my property.”

  “We’re sorry,” Tess said as Cain stepped up to her side. The old woman stared them down with stern, steely gray eyes. “Really, we are. We thought the barn was abandoned. We just came over to look. That’s all, really.”

  “She’s right. That’s all,” Cain said. “We’ll go. No problem there.”

  The woman didn’t look at all like what Cain envisioned a hoarder would look like. He pictured the owner of this dirty disheveled mess being one as well, but this lady was well groomed with neatly styled hair, crisply ironed jeans, and a bright red University of Wisconsin sweatshirt. “I’d like to believe you, young man,” she said, “but I’ve had vandals in here damaging my treasures and thieves stealing them. I don’t want people on my property.”

  Her statement left Cain baffled and his eyes moved over the stacks and piles of clutter surrounding them. Is she serious? How could anyone damage this mess? And how could she possibly know what—if anything—had been stolen? The place looked completely disorganized. He could see no pattern, just chaos.

  The old woman pushed the gun toward them, and his eyes snapped back to her. “Go on now before I call the police.”

  His hands shot up in the air. “We’re gone.”

  Cain nodded to Tess and both took a step backward when suddenly the fawn darted out from behind one of the rusty heaps at their feet. Items crashed and clanged to the ground, scaring the fawn so badly that it bolted, jerking the leash from Tess�
�s hand. She shrieked in surprise as the leash handle flew away from her and bounced after the animal. The fawn stopped running when the handle caught up to him and smacked him hard in his injured rear end.

  “Little guy. No,” Tess cried as she, Cain, and the old woman raced to the cowering fawn. Tess reached him first, kneeling down and cradling the animal in her arms. They had removed the bandage covering its hind leg the day before hoping the air would help it heal. The raised red scab left by the gunshot wound stood out sharply against its pale white hide.

  “Did you injure this animal?” the old woman asked, her words sounding more like an accusation than a question.

  “No, of course not,” Tess said. “We’re helping him. We’re taking him to Man—” Cain nudged her with his knee. She choked back her words, and both women looked at him quizzically. He gave them a thin smile and shrugged.

  The old woman pushed the rifle at Cain. “Are you Ojibwe?” she asked.

  The questioned surprised him and the fact that she kept pushing the gun his way angered him. Enough already, he grumbled inwardly. Why does everyone we meet feel the need to point a gun at me? When he finally answered her, his voice was tinged with hostility. “Yes,” he said. “Are you?”

  “No,” she replied flatly. “My best friend in this world was.” The woman paused then and stared down at the albino fawn. The animal locked its pink eyes on hers, and she looked almost lovingly at it. “She’s passed now,” the old woman whispered, then raised her eyes to them. “You don’t want to go to Manitowish Waters.”

  Tess gave Cain a bewildered look. “Why not?” she asked.

  “Because that’s not where they are.” The woman’s demeanor seemed to soften toward them, and she slowly lowered the gun. Her lips quivered with a small forlorn smile as she continued to stare at the fawn. “I know about the ghost herd,” she said without looking up.

  Tess rose to her feet, protectively helping the fawn stand as well. The animal unsteadily gained his footing, but as soon as he was on all fours he seemed to forget what had sent him cowering to the ground in the first place. He pranced off in exploration, soon reaching the leash’s sixteen-foot limit and pulling at Tess’s arm. The woman’s gaze shifted back to the two teens as the fawn darted in and out of sight.

  “It’s good that you are taking him there. But not on foot.”

  “We’re doing all right,” Cain assured her.

  She shook her head. “There are things in these woods. Things that can hurt him. Things that can hurt you.”

  “You got that right,” Cain said, nodding to the gun.

  She held the rifle out to him.

  “A bb gun?” he questioned. “You held us up with a bb gun?”

  “A broken, antique one at that.” She blew on her knuckles and brushed them across her shoulder. “Worked didn’t it?”

  Cain dropped his head and slowly shook it while Tess giggled.

  “A lady’s got to protect herself. I’m Florence, by the way. You can call me Flo. Retired teacher and full-time antique—or junk—collector, depending on how you look at it.”

  They exchanged introductions, then Florence brushed the pleasantries aside and got down to business. “I’m not going to let you three go off in these woods alone. I’ll drive you.” Cain started to voice his objection, but she held up one hand stopping him. “No use, son.”

  He groaned inwardly, looking dismally at Tess and rolling his eyes. A teacher. Out here in the middle of nowhere we have to run into a teacher of all people, a bossy gun-wielding teacher. He barely listened to the lecture she was dispensing until one phrase caught his attention.

  “You need to get to Lost Creek. Did you know that?”

  He shook his head. “We are going to Manitowish Waters. Not Lost Creek.”

  Flo took a long, deep breath, pursing her lips together tightly. “Well, I can assure you they aren’t roaming the streets there. Come on, boy. Think. The town is named for the legend. You know the Ojibwe word Manitou? What does it mean?”

  Cain rolled his eyes again. He was not in the mood for a lesson.

  “What does it mean?” she asked again.

  “Spirit.”

  “Right. And wish translates to dwelling. Spirit Dwelling. The town got its name in 1940. The ghost herd is ancient.”

  “I don’t understand,” Tess said turning to Cain. “What does spirit dwelling have to do with albino deer?”

  “It’s one of the legends,” he explained. “It is said that albino deer carry the spirits of the dead—or that they are the dead.”

  “Oh.” She spoke softly. “The dead. OK. I get it. Woods ghosts, right? So, it could take days for us to find them.” Her voice turned anxious and whiny. “I don’t have days. Cain, I don’t have days. Deer roam. I would think even ghostly spirit ones.”

  “Of course they roam. But they roam that area. We’ll find them.”

  “You’ll find them only if they want to be found,” Florence countered. “Your best shot of doing that is Lost Creek. The ghost herd will reveal itself there.”

  Cain stayed quiet and stood firm. His we-eh had said nothing about Lost Creek, and he wasn’t going to let this crazy woman steer him off his path.

  Florence huffed. “Why do you think I’m here? Today of all days—and heading all the way to Springstead at that.”

  Springstead. That word got through to Cain. Springstead was the town he had planned to avoid. Just hours earlier, he had plotted their coarse away from Springstead, but here was this lady saying she was going there—today. That’s not likely a coincidence, he thought, because nothing on this journey seemed to be a coincidence. It all seemed fated. He was not in control here, that much was certain. The spirits will always guide you, his we-eh had assured him time and time again. Let them.

  “I rarely come out here,” the retired teacher rambled on. “I have buildings filled with antiques from here to Minocqua, but I have a buyer for something in this building.” She pointed sharply at the barn. “Why do you think you’re here? What are the chances of us running into each other,” she waved her arms around, “all the way out here.”

  “She’s right. Cain, come on,” Tess said. “Let’s consider this.”

  Cain took out the map, folding it so Springstead and Lost Creek showed. If Flo was willing to drive them to Springstead, maybe she’d be willing to go a little farther. The northern tip of the Lac du Flambeau Indian Reservation was just south of Lost Creek. If they couldn’t find the ghost herd at the creek, at least they’d be close to the reservation and could seek help there. The town of Powell was nearby too, but Cain thought it best to avoid any town no matter how small.

  “Can you drop us off at the Lac du Flambeau reservation?” he asked with a nonchalance that took both women by surprise. Florence in particular looked stunned. Cain chuckled to himself, pleased at getting the upper hand on the bossy teacher. She crossed her arms over her chest as her steely eyes sized him up. “Yes, young man,” she said. “I’ll do you one better and take you directly to Powell. But you’ll need to help me first.”

  She led them to the barn’s double doors, unlocking the large padlock hanging there and, with the two teens’ help, pulled the doors open wide. As the afternoon sun streamed into the dark interior, Cain heard Tess let out a small gasp and he found himself muttering, “Whoa.” He had not been prepared for what he was seeing. The grounds outside were nothing compared to this. From the floor to the rafters, the barn was packed. Except for the narrow aisles that weaved their way through the clutter, every inch of space was filled. Furniture, lamps, glassware, china, oil lamps, knickknacks, jewelry; it was difficult to take it all in.

  “How many buildings did you say you have?” Tess asked.

  “A lot,” Florence replied. “I buy them cheap and fill them up.”

  “So, they’re all like this?” Cain asked, stepping farther in.

&
nbsp; Florence moved to a light switch and soon fluorescent lights sputtered on throughout the building. “Yes, pretty much. It started as a little retirement hobby but soon my garage was full and my treasures started filling the house.” A childlike smile softened her face but then the smile thinned. “My husband put an end to that, though. He bought me my first building. I think he wanted me out of the house and out of his hair.”

  Tess picked up a figurine of a peasant girl. “Is it all for sale?”

  “For the right price. It’s not about selling though. I don’t care if any of it sells or not. It’s about collecting. It’s the thrill of the find. Take this piece over here.” She waved them forward, and they followed her down one aisle, then another, stopping before a scratched white desk with a built-in book rest. “This is an Amish pulpit. The preacher would lay his Bible here and give his sermons. It’s a unique piece worth…” She hemmed a little. “Five hundred dollars.”

  “Five hundred,” Tess repeated. “For that rickety thing?”

  Cain was more amazed that Flo lead them straight to the piece she had wanted. Finding anything in the place had to be a nightmare, he thought.

  “Oh, yes,” Flo said. “I’ve got a coat rack valued at $10,000 right over there, and a Victorian dresser worth $50,000 just around the corner.”

  “No wonder you’re so worried about vandals,” Cain said. “With so much, um.” he paused searching for the right words. “Um, with so much—”

  “Junk?” Flo offered.

  “No, not junk,” he quickly corrected. “Inventory. With so much inventory, how do you know what’s here, let alone where the heck it is.”

  “It’s all up here, young man.” She tapped her temple and winked at him. “My mind’s like a steel trap. I forget nothing. What I’m here for today are a couple porch posts, a metal bedframe, a gas station sign, and a loon.”

  “A loom?” Tess asked, scanning the room in puzzlement.