Ghosts of Manitowish Waters

by G. M. Moore

  “No, a loon, as in the animal. There’s a fiberglass one about four feet tall toward the back. A resort in Mercer wants it.” Flo smiled confidently. “When I first saw it, I knew someone in Mercer would want it.”

  “Why?” Cain asked, struggling to suppress laughter. “Because they’re all loony tunes up there?” He comically slapped the side of his leg.

  Tess groaned. “Oh, that was lame, very lame.”

  Cain felt Flo’s gaze, looked into her humorless eyes, and quickly composed himself.

  “No,” she said, irritation edging her voice, “because it’s the loon capital of the world.”

  Both he and Tess had to stifle giggles, turning red faced in their struggle. Flo seemed to pay them no attention. With a twitch of her head, she turned abruptly and headed down the aisle. “Come on,” she called. “Enough dilly-dallying. I’m expected in Springstead. Help me load this stuff up, so we can get out of here and on the road.”

  Within twenty minutes, they had Flo’s green pickup loaded and ready to go. From behind the wheel, she banged on the side of the rusty old truck. “Everything square back there?”

  Cain leaned over the wood guardrails lining the truck’s bed and gave her a thumbs-up. “We’re good.”

  As he settled in next to Tess and the albino fawn, the truck jerked into motion.

  “See,” Tess said, leaning back against the loon. “I told you we’d make good time today.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Wes pushed hard up the steep hill, hitting the crest with speed and catching good air off the top. He landed solidly, his bike and body absorbing the impact. The tires gripped the rocky terrain then quickly lost it, sending the bike and its rider skidding downward. Wes fought for control, forcing the thick treads to do their job, and finally righting the bike and regaining momentum. He rode to the bottom of the hill, pulled off the path, and waited for Ben at the edge of the woods.

  If he and Ben were going to be forced into tracking those kids, he figured they might as well have some fun doing it. They were turning the trip into a mini vacation, all on Clyde’s dime. And why shouldn’t we? Wes questioned defiantly, removing his helmet and sports glasses to wipe dirty sweat from his face and brow. If T-Rex had those kids somewhere out here, well, there wasn’t a thing Wes could do about it. Not right now, anyway. Besides that, he and Ben were the ones taking all the risk, the ones whose necks—and possibly lives—were on the line. What his father didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him and what he found out—well, that would hurt Wes in the long run, but he’d deal with it. Over the years, he had learned to.

  Yesterday, he and Ben had spent a rowdy night on the Lac du Flambeau Indian Reservation at the Lake of the Torches Resort and Casino. Wes found himself continually puzzled by a Native American culture that on one hand was offended by mascots like Illinois’ Chief Illiniwek, yet named its own streets Peace Pipe Lane and Indian Village Drive and allowed itself to become synonymous with gaming. To him, all of that was far more gimmicky and demeaning. He wasn’t one to judge, though, and the two young men enjoyed a night of heavy drinking and gambling with the locals. Wes grinned. They had scored big last night, winning money and getting an answer to where those kids might be heading. Clyde would be proud. No, Wes quickly corrected, should be proud. Clyde should be proud, but he wouldn’t be. He’d find fault with what they did, where they did it, and how they did it. Nobody ever did anything right in Clyde’s eyes but Clyde.

  Wes spied movement at the top of the hill and looked up in time to see Ben’s airborne bike flying over. He landed hard on the path, lost his grip on the handlebars, and ended up somersaulting down the hill. Wes laughed at his friend’s mishap, holding both thumbs up in the air. “Nicely done,” he yelled. Ben flipped him off, then pushed to his feet and began brushing dirt and pine needles from his clothes.

  The two men had rented mountain bikes on the reservation this morning and were taking the area’s network of single-track trails to the town of Powell. They planned to spend the night there and see what bars that town had to offer. Why sleep in the woods and drink alone if you didn’t have to? they theorized. In the morning they’d find Lost Creek, where the elusive albino deer were said to roam. In theory, they could locate the creek off either Little Bear River or Dead Pike Lake. But, according to the Ojibwe locals, Lost Creek carried that name for a reason: it was hard to find and easy to lose once you did. Sometimes the creek was where the map said it would be, sometimes it was not. You could follow it, only to find yourself lost, the creek seemingly vanishing in the mist.

  Ooga Booga Booga, Wes quipped, chuckling at how foolishly superstitious it all seemed. Then, remembering what had happened to his Uncle Earl and the unknown fates of Butch and T-Rex, he quickly turned stony. Something weird was definitely going on. Don’t mock it, he scolded. You don’t want to bring bad mojo on yourself and Ben. He needed to take what the Ojibwe had said last night and the curse Ben had told him about seriously. What had happened to his Uncle Earl in the Indian cemetery three days earlier was a perfect example. Whatever the man had seen in the mist had changed him. When Wes told his uncle about Clyde’s plan to track those kids to Manitowish Waters, he actually had wanted to call the police. The police! Wes still couldn’t believe it. He had tried his best to convince his uncle not to do it and left thinking he had, but Wes knew the man had a mind of his own and once it was made up it was to hell with whatever anyone else said, even his favorite nephew.

  Wes shifted his attention back to Ben and found him still recovering from the fall, down on his knees, examining the bike’s frame. Maybe staying out here and biking these trails is the way to go, Wes thought. Staying away from Lost Creek and those kids might just keep everyone out of trouble. He’d just tell Clyde they couldn’t find the mysterious albino deer herd, that the locals knew nothing about it, and that the police had gotten wind of it all. He liked that idea. He’d definitely mention the police to Clyde. That would put some fear into his dad and lessen their verbal—and in Wes’s case physical—beating.

  Up the hill, Ben was finally on his bike and riding down again. Wes waited, expecting his friend to stop and pull up next to him, but instead Ben sped by yelling “Sucker!”

  “Dude, you’re a dead man!” Wes warned, hurriedly snapping on his helmet, pushing on his glasses, and mounting the bike at a run.

  As the two young men followed the trail to Powell, the landscape slowly changed around them, the woodlands turning into what could best be described as marshlands. The change was so gradual that they didn’t notice how soggy the ground was becoming until it was almost impassable. Their tires sank deep into the moist earth, becoming so mired in it that they were forced to dismount and walk. Then the trail that had been so well maintained and clearly marked fell victim to neglect. It became more and more difficult to distinguish the trail from the forest floor. And as the trail disappeared, so did the signage. The wooden markers they did find were useless, with most lying on the ground, no longer mounted on posts. Wes pulled out the trail map, and the two men consulted it again and again. They pressed on, swearing as they pushed and pulled their bikes and as they shook mushy earth from their shoes, but still confident they were heading in the right direction.

  After about an hour of trudging through knee-deep undergrowth and battling mosquitoes and every type of fly known to man, they came to a logging trail. Although it was overgrown and long forgotten, at least it was dry.

  “Hallelujah for solid ground!” Ben yelled triumphantly, jumping up and down on the compact earth. “I could kiss it.”

  Wes wiped his feet vigorously, ridding his shoes of the mud and muck caked there. “That’s one ride I don’t want to do again.” He found a tick crawling up his leg and flicked it into the woods. “You’d think someone would have warned us.”

  Ben snorted. “Yeah, a little head’s up would have been nice. And here I thought we made some lasting friendships last night.”

/>   “I know.” Wes grinned sarcastically. “This really hurts. I mean we bonded, right?”

  “For sure. Guess the joke’s on us. Are we lost now or what?”

  Wes looked around. “We’re lost.”

  They took a few minutes to survey the surroundings, drink water, and fuel up on energy bars.

  “Ready?” Ben asked as he pushed off and mounted his bike. “Let’s see where this road takes us.” Wes nodded and followed after him.

  The logging trail turned out to be just what he and Ben needed. It was an easy course with just enough obstacles to test their skills and enough twists and turns to keep it interesting. Within ten minutes the two were enjoying the ride again, jumping logs and popping off boulders in the remote woodland. They picked up speed on a clear, straight stretch and Wes saw Ben, still leading, scoot off the back of his bike seat.

  What’s he up to? Wes wondered.

  Ben, with his chest resting on the seat, reached one hand down at a time and unclipped his shoes from the pedals.

  “No, don’t do it man,” Wes cautioned under his breath.

  Gripping the handlebars, Ben slowly lifted his legs out behind him. “Superman!” he yelled.

  “Show off,” Wes fired back, inwardly marveling that his friend had actually pulled off the stunt.

  As Ben held the pose, Wes quickly gained on him with the intention of passing and possibly throwing the cocky jerk off balance, but something in the woods caught the corner of his eye, and he impulsively pumped his handbrake, pulling up from his position over the handlebars and staring into the passing foliage. He couldn’t see anything but had a nagging feeling that something was following them. He cocked his head toward the woods, straining to hear what was out there as Ben and his bike started wobbling just a few feet ahead. Wes sneered. “You’re going down.”

  Ben continued to struggle as he returned to Clark Kent status, lowering his feet to the pedals and shakily standing up. He regained his balance and flashed Wes a cocky smirk when a bone-chilling hiss filled the air. Wes saw only a blur of movement as something sprang out of the woods and hit Ben with such speed that in a split second he was gone, his bike left rider less, spinning to the ground.

  Wes screamed out for his friend, riding over the downed bike and entangling his own in it. He careened to the ground. His helmet ricocheted off a boulder, propelling his head into the broken, twisted spokes of the intertwined bikes. His cheek ripped open and a sickening dizziness overtook him as the taste of blood filled his mouth. Wes forced himself to pull up and off the spokes, then collapsed back to the ground. He wanted to get up, knew he had to get up, but lifting his head again was impossible. Black spots danced before his eyes as his vision slowly darkened. He could do nothing but close his eyes and wait for the threatening blackness to pass.

  He stayed completely still for several minutes, then he felt or heard something—he wasn’t sure which—and slowly opened his eyes. His vision was blurred, but he knew what he saw. A tail, a long one, had just swished past him. Wes’s his stomach clenched as huffs and grunts filled the air around him. He stayed still, hoping the animal would move on, but it continued to sniff and probe his body. Hot breath inched over his leg, and he turned his head in time to see the cougar bite down and pull. Wes screamed and, with fear-fueled adrenaline, kicked as hard as he could. The startled cougar let go and backed up. Wes scrambled to his feet, clawing, crawling, and tripping his way into the woods and away from the man-eating cat.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Are you all set then?” Flo asked as she climbed into the truck cab and slid behind the wheel. She held the door open, waiting for a response from the two teens standing in the mist on the side of the lonely two-lane road.

  Cain nodded impatiently. “Yeah, we’ve got it.”

  The old woman ignored him, turning her head toward Tess instead. “You know where to go? What to look for?”

  “Yes,” the girl answered, waving a piece of paper with a hand-drawn map and directions on it. “We head north. If we can’t find Lost Creek after a couple miles, we head east and look for Sandy Beach Road.”

  “That’s right. The road should intersect the creek, but you never know. That creek has a tendency to disappear.” With a worrisome look, she turned her attention to Cain. “I don’t see why you won’t let me drive you into town. Powell is just up the road. I can drop you off right at Sandy Beach Road.”

  “No,” he replied curtly, then his voice softened. “We’re good here.”

  The old woman frowned. “All right then.” She pulled the truck door shut, then leaned her head out the window. “Get in there, do your business, and get out. Understand? Don’t stay in those woods after dark.” She turned away, rummaging around in the truck cab. When she turned back she held a handful of money out to Tess. When the girl didn’t reach for it, Flo shook it forcefully at her. “Take it.”

  Tess looked to Cain, hesitating before meekly stepping forward and taking the money.

  “After it’s all done, you take that to the Black Bear Inn. I wrote it all down.” She pointed to the piece of paper Tess held. “Powell’s not much, but the inn is clean and safe. Good people there.” Flo looked up to the thick cloud cover now darkening the sky. Her troubled gaze move down to the sparse woodlands surrounding them, then to the strange, midday mist covering the ground. “Promise me you’ll go there. I won’t leave you here without a promise. I need to know you won’t be in those woods after dark, not the woods around Lost Creek.”

  “We promise,” Tess said, glancing at Cain who simply shrugged.

  “Very good then. I’ll call the inn tonight to make sure

  you got there.” Flo paused, and with a longing sigh, looked to the albino fawn. The animal seemed ghost-like just then, floating in the white mist swirling around it. She smiled

  softly, staring as if in a daze before tapping the side of the

  truck with her hand. “I’m off then. Take care of him and your-

  selves.” With that Flo fired up the engine and drove away.

  The two teens watched the truck vanish into the distance before leaving the open road and vanishing themselves into the looming lowland forest.

  ****

  “How are we supposed to find anything out here,” Cain grumbled, as he stomped ahead of Tess and the albino fawn. The fog and the ever-changing landscape made it difficult for him to stay oriented. He thought they were still heading east after passing Sandy Beach Road. The compass he carried said they were, but he wasn’t certain, and his confusion agitated him. They had been hiking for at least an hour, and he was no longer confident he could get them back out of this godforsaken place.

  Godforsaken? he questioned, amused at himself for thinking of the word, but it fit. He looked around at the deadly quiet landscape. It definitely fit.

  The two teens had started their hike easily enough on relatively dry ground among tall, majestic pines and stands of aspen and birch. But then the ground beneath their feet softened, turning into wetlands dotted with clusters of black spruce and tamarack and covered with a thin veil of mist. The soggy terrain was a nightmare to navigate, forcing them to turn and zigzag so many times Cain’s head was spinning. They had followed Flo’s directions, but Sandy Beach Road had come and gone and still they had no sign of Lost Creek. Cain snorted in frustration; then a perplexed look covered his face as he realized he didn’t hear movement behind him. He stopped and turned around to find Tess and the albino fawn standing motionless beside a dying spruce.

  “Why did you stop?” he demanded, the irritation in his voice clear.

  “I don’t know,” she replied, matching his tone. “This Indian stuff is still a little weird to me.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  She bit her lip, hesitating. “Well, since meeting your godfather…you know, the sweat lodge and everything?” Cain nodded impatiently. “Well, whenever I’ve needed direction or a sign
of what to do an eagle has given it in some way.”

  “OK.” He shrugged. “So?”

  “So, look up.” Tess raised a finger into the air and pointed to the top of the scraggy tree at her side.

  Cain’s eyes moved up the towering spruce to a massive nest built into the forks of its highest branches and came to rest on a bald eagle regally perched there. The animal was looking down at them, and when he met its eyes, the bird squawked loudly. Cain shrank back at the sound and his mouth dropped open. They hadn’t seen much of anything since crossing Sandy Beach Road. The woods and wetlands had been eerily still, yet here was an eagle, its piercing scream disturbing who knows what out here. Cain wanted badly to shush it.

  “Are you having an Indian moment?” Tess asked after a few minutes of him standing there slack-jawed.

  He practically spit out a laugh. “Maybe.”

  The fawn settled down in the grassy underbrush at their feet, curling up quietly and closing its eyes.

  “Does he know something we don’t?” Tess asked.

  “Maybe,” Cain said again.

  “So we wait, I guess?”

  Cain nodded, and she followed his gaze back to the bald eagle. The two teens waited at the foot of the tree, heads tilted upward, watching the eagle for some sort of sign.

  After several minutes impatience got the best of Tess and she raised her arms in the air, shaking them imploringly at the animal. “Oh, come on. Give us something already.”

  Her plea was met only by silence, but then the fawn’s head shot up, and his ears twitched back and forth as if on high alert. The eagle seemed to take the cue, stretching its enormous wings back and lifting its deadly claws up and down before effortlessly taking flight.

  Cain’s eyes never left the sky as he motioned for Tess to follow him.

  The two teens struggled to track the soaring eagle, running through the difficult terrain as best they could while keeping eyes on the sky. Cain dodged trees and low shrubs as he maneuvered through the fog. His foot splashed into water, and when he looked to check his footing, a flicker of movement caught his eye. He could swear a deer, a white one, had leaped into a stand of mixed pine just ahead.