by Blaire Edens
Carolina Crypto: Case One
The Lizard Man Affair
by Blaire Edens
Carolina Crypto: Case One
The Lizard Man Affair
Copyright 2016 Blaire Edens
www.blaireedens.com
Cover design by Freebird Designs
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictionally. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Also by Blaire Edens:
The Witch of Roan Mountain
The Fairy Bargain
An Officer and a Mermaid
Coming Soon:
A Ghostly Wager
Frenzied: A Great White Story
Saving Jessie
Carolina Crypto: Case 2: The Chupacabra Chase
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Epilogue
About the Author
The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.
-H. P. Lovecraft
CHAPTER ONE
Spencer Watson hadn’t been in Scape Ore Swamp in more than ten years.
Standing on the edge of it, his heart beat a little faster. He didn’t know what he’d find. Hell, he didn’t even know what he hoped to find.
The place had been a part of his life since boyhood. Filled with so many memories, so many accomplishments. On its edges, he’d learned to pitch a tent. In its black mud, he’d learned to recognize the tracks of deer and bobcats and coyotes. Spencer had taken his first shot of bourbon here on a cold November day, the amber fire spreading all the way from his throat to his stomach.
He and his father had spent so much time in this place. So much time.
Until twelve months ago, he’d thought he and his father were close. He’d always told the old man his secrets, and he’d thought the old man had done the same. With sweat running down his neck and mosquitos buzzing around his head, Spencer knew he’d been wrong.
There had been plenty his father hadn’t told him, and now Spencer was left with the task of unraveling the truth, a truth he feared more than any legend that had come out of Scape Ore.
The swamp, in the upper coastal plain of South Carolina, was nearly a hundred square miles of mud, alligators and trees dripping with Spanish moss. It was a world all its own, like a primordial bubble that existed between the constant hum of the nearby interstate and the low-level buzz of the small towns that bordered it.
It had a checkered history, and while there were several stories about how the place got its name, the most likely one involved a lady of a dubious reputation. Her affairs, whether paid or otherwise, angered the people of the area and they ran her out of the county. Most of the literature implied that they meant to do more than merely run her out of the county, but the nameless woman escaped into the swamp, giving it the name Escaped Whore Swamp.
Over the years, the name had been shortened, most likely so that it fell easier on the ears, and tongues, of the more refined ladies and gentlemen, but most people still knew the old name even if they didn’t dare utter it in mixed company.
His father, Walter, had taught him everything he knew about the swamp. It had been the older man’s favorite place on earth, and he’d starting bringing his son along as soon as Spencer was able to identify which snakes were poisonous and which ones weren’t.
Spencer took a deep breath and stepped off the side of the road and into the dense undergrowth. It felt like diving into the deep end of the pool. Nothing had changed. It was hot and humid, full of rotting leaves and bleached bone. It was a totally different reality. He paused, breathed in the unique, organic scent of the swamp. The smell was as unique as his fingerprint.
No more excuses.
He had to find his father, dead or alive.
Spencer ignored the shiver that ran up his spine and walked deeper into the saw palmettos and wild cane.
Half a mile in, he was sweating like he’d run a half-marathon. Sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes, making them burn. He took off his sunglasses and wiped his face with a cotton bandana. He had no idea how he was going to make it another two miles.
He slugged back half of a bottle of water, repositioned his Costa sunglasses firmly on his nose, and trudged forward through the saw palmetto scrub. Even though he’d been little more than a teenager the last time he’d walked through here, he remembered it like the back of his hand. The landscape was so ancient, so wild, that time did little to change it. Until the sun became a red giant, Scape Ore would remain the same.
By the time he reached his destination, he’d stopped counting bites. The mosquitos and the yellow flies had turned him into a human pin cushion. Every inch of exposed skin itched, and he fought not to scratch the growing red bumps.
The tree, a weathered bald cypress, was just where he expected it to be.
It had always been his father’s base of operations in the swamp, and he was relieved to see that it sat on the same high spot, two or three feet above the rest of the landscape. If this was really the last place his father was alive, there should be some sign of him.
After all, that had been the rule.
He walked toward the tree slowly. Half of him hoped to find a tell-tale mark on the trunk of the tree. The other half of him prayed he wouldn’t.
Twelve months with no sign of his father.
It was time to solve the mystery.
Spencer only considered two possibilities, and they were equally terrifying.
He took a deep, calming breath and placed his hand on the smooth bark of the tree. Every time his father, a competent survivalist, came into the swamp, he carved his initials and date of entry into the bark. Beside every date, there was an “X” that meant his dad left the swamp.
The last entry read:
WRW, 8-12-15
There was no “X”.
What does that mean? Does it mean he died here? Or does it mean that he wanted us to think so?
Spencer’s head reeled with the possibilities.
Where in the hell had his father gone?
His father had always been the steadiest, most responsible person he knew. But right before his disappearance, something had changed. Dad had been erratic, scattered and secretive. At the time, Spencer had thought it would pass, that his father would get back to himself sooner or later.
I should’ve talked to him, demanded he explain what was going on in his life. Now I may never know what really happened to him.
Even though the thought had been omnipresent for months, it still jabbed like a knife to the gut every time it passed through his brain. He took a deep breath and tried to force everything except the sights and sounds surrounding him from his mind. He had to concentrate on clues, facts.
Beside the tree, there was a large stump. Spencer sat down on it and pulled a can of bug spray from his backpack. After covering his arms and neck, he decided to stay here for a while. Maybe being in the last place his father was known to have been would give him some new ideas.
The swamp was awash with sounds. The call of woodpeckers mixed with the croaking of frogs and the quick splashes of turtles slipping off fallen trees and back into the water blended into a soundtrack he knew well. Even though he didn’t love the outdoors
with the same zeal his father did, it was comforting to be back here. He felt closer to his dad than he had since his disappearance.
Spencer cringed at the memory of the argument they’d had just hours before his dad walked out of the office, never to be seen again.
The sun passed its zenith and began to make its way toward the western horizon. Spencer pulled a protein bar from his pocket and ate it. He’d only brought a small flashlight and he didn’t want to try to make his way out after dark, but the swamp was hypnotic and every time he made the decision to leave, he talked himself into just a few more minutes.
By the time his head cleared, it was full dusk, and Spencer realized he had to get moving. He slung his backpack over one shoulder, rubbed his index finger over his father’s last entry and started the slow trek toward the paved road.
He was about halfway to the car when he heard something.
Something fierce. Loud. Scary as hell.
A deep, bass roar ricocheted off the surface of the standing water.
He stopped and listened, sure that it was just a fluke, a figment of his imagination.
Until he heard it again.
Goosebumps popped out on his skin and the heat and humidity was forgotten. He felt adrenaline flush into his bloodstream, and every second turned into a freeze-frame. He listened again.
It wasn’t a bull alligator. It wasn’t a buck.
The sound was getting closer fast.
His heart raced. He tasted the coppery tang of fear in the back of his throat.
Calm down, dude. You know this place. The animals, the plants. You’re just scaring yourself.
It’s not real. It can’t be real. It’s only an old story told to scare kids.
The only scary things out here are gators and snakes. They don’t roar.
It’s just a legend. A story designed for a good scare.
Holy shit.
He closed his eyes, convinced himself that when he opened them he’d be safe in his own bed. When he opened them again, the massive lizard was right in front of him.
It was real.
Standing not five feet from him was . . . it. It. Towering well over seven feet tall, it was a muddy green, a color that reminded him of the junk that used to stick to the side of his tropical fish tank. Its eyes were glossy black, void of anything but ferocity, and it watched Spencer’s every move.
The fucking Lizard Man is real.
He was too afraid to move. He held his breath, thinking that even a slight movement might be enough to draw more attention to himself.
The reptile sized him up, shifting its large head from side to side. Sweat dripped into Spencer’s eyes, but he didn’t blink. Couldn’t blink.
The creature took a lumbering step toward him, and Spencer felt a rush of nausea sweep over him. He fought it, determined to keep the sickness at bay until he was safely locked in his car and rolling at sixty miles an hour.
The lizard opened his mouth, its dark pink tongue tasting the air, tasting Spencer’s fear. From several feet away, Spencer smelled the foul odor of his breath. Like rancid meat mixed with rotten cabbage. The nausea flooded him again, and he fought to maintain control.
If Lizard Man was anything like his alligator cousins, moving quickly would be the worst mistake he could make.
Staying still was the hardest thing he’d ever done.
Especially when the creature tilted his head back and roared again. Spencer felt the vibration deep into his organs.
He blinked, concentrated on cataloging every detail of the creature in front of him. When he got back to safety, if he got back to safety, he wanted to remember as much as he could. He dug deep, back into his days as a Boy Scout and then as an undergraduate biology student.
Focus on the facts. Be objective.
Bipedal, three toes on each foot and each hand. Short powerful tail. Long snout, more like an alligator than a turtle. Definitely a reptile. Except for the hair. Small, bristly black hairs covered the thing.
How is that possible?
* * *
Dr. Lucy Whittemore was losing confidence.
The phone wasn’t ringing. She’d been in her new office for nearly two weeks, and the only time it trilled was when her mother called to remind her that dinner was at seven. Just like it had been for the last thirty years.
Since her father’s death, nearly twenty years ago, Lucy had been a surrogate husband to her mother. She’d been the one who changed oil in the cars because they couldn’t afford to take their heaps to the mechanic. She’d learned to build bookcases to hold all her cryptozoological magazines. Not only could she take apart and rebuild a dryer, she was hell on wheels with a riding lawn mower.
Lucy had never had the opportunity to be a delicate, feminine flower, so she’d learned to be capable and strong.
For better or worse.
These days, she was convinced it was mostly the latter.
The delicate feminine flowers probably weren’t floundering in a dusty office with nothing more than a Stephen King paperback to keep them company. They were wearing monogrammed cover-ups at the country club pool and spending hours on Pinterest.
On the other hand, that didn’t sound very interesting. Maybe those girls had never allowed themselves the pleasure of a good scare.
She looked around the tiny office, furnished with thrift store finds and bits and pieces her mother didn’t want anymore. It was a couple of steps below professional, but she’d spent so much money renting the place, getting internet and phone and buying signs, she couldn’t afford to order shiny new things from a catalog.
Hell, she couldn’t afford to eat at Burger King more than once a week. Even with a coupon.
She’d never imagined herself in this place.
Especially not when she’d signed the papers for the student loans that paid for her Ph.D.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Not that she was doing that either these days.
That memory was even more distant than the memory of a paycheck.
Carolina Cryptozoological Associates had sounded like such a good idea, but she was beginning to get that sinking feeling in her stomach. After years of watching every television show she could find about Bigfoot, Loch Ness and the Chupacabra, she’d known that someday she wanted to investigate them on her own.
Just not with a zero bank balance.
She’d gone to school, earned a PhD in Physical Anthropology because it was the one thing that connected her to the mythical creatures she loved so much. After graduation, she’d gotten a teaching job right away. During the day she’d taught classes, and at night, she researched cryptozoological creatures and wrote articles for crypto magazines. She saved her money and waited for the day she had the money to jet off to some far-flung corner of the globe and track down the Yeti.
Another thing that didn’t go exactly as planned.
For the four years she’d been an assistant professor on a tenure-track at Alamance State University, she’d kept the two parts of her life separate.
Until the day someone figured out that Lou Warren was a nom de plume and that Dr. Lucy Whittemore was writing articles for sensational magazines like It’s REAL! and Sasquatch Monthly.
When it was time to consider tenure, the department declined, and she was out on her ass. Thankfully her childhood room-- Jurassic Park comforter included--was still available. She’d packed everything she owned—nothing more than several crates of books and magazines and a couple of trash bags worth of clothes—and came home. At thirty.
It had taken a lot longer to swallow her pride than to unpack.
She was back in Cheldron, North Carolina, a mountain town so small it made Mayberry look urbane. While it was nice to be back where the places and faces were all familiar, home had its share of problems, too.
The slow ticking of the clock above her desk was driving her crazy. Lucy picked up the tattered book and tucked it away. At this rate, she could finish Stephen King’s entire catalog of published works by
mid-month, and while she loved his work, she loved buying her own groceries more.
As much as she preferred to wait until her mother was asleep before she let herself into the house, she’d been in the office for too long today. She fished through her large purse and was just wrapping her fingers around the keys to her 1998 Dodge Ram pickup when she heard a strange sound.
It sounded like a phone ringing.
It wasn’t until she noticed the screen on her business cellphone flashing that she believed it. She swiped the green arrow to the left and answered.
“Carolina Crypto.”
“I need help.” The voice was deep, more bass than baritone, and goosebumps popped up along her forearms. “I saw something.”
“Saw what?” she asked.
“A creature that shouldn’t be in the swamp. A big scary ass reptile.”
“Like the Lizard Man?”
Her first real call, and it was only an Urban Legend, one out of Lee County, South Carolina. She’d been hoping for something cool like Bigfoot or one of the many lake monsters spread throughout the United States.
Instead she got swamps in August.
She’d read plenty about the Lizard Man. Back in the late 1980s, she’d been a kid but she’d already been interested in strange creatures. Her mother had grudgingly bought her copies of the National Enquirer and ripped out the articles about Lizard Man so she could read them. He’d popped up a couple of more times over the years, but none of the sightings sounded even close to legit. In fact, most of them probably were because hallucinogens or grain alcohol had been involved.
With a sigh, she sank down in her chair—a Goodwill find that creaked in a high C—and pulled a new legal pad from the top drawer. The cup on the corner of her desk was filled with perfectly sharpened pencils, and she grabbed one. “Tell me what you saw. The more detail, the better.”