Missing in Michigan: A Paranormal Mystery (Alexa Bentley Paranormal Mysteries Book 1)

by April A. Taylor

  I tap on the keys of the lone computer. My first search brings up one news article about Josh Felton’s disappearance.

  I decide to try a different track. It takes a little while, but my budding sleuthing skills bring me to a piece about Chad’s deceased wife. It’s dated three years ago tomorrow.

  Keweenaw County, Michigan – Munising resident Diane Hambler is presumed dead after an extensive three-day search. Her moored, heavily damaged boat turned up on the east side of Isle Royale three days ago. Her husband, Munising Sheriff Chad Hambler, helped coordinate the search effort. Mrs. Hambler is survived by her husband and fifteen-year-old son. A candlelight vigil is scheduled for tonight in Copper Harbor. If you have information about Diane Hambler’s accident or disappearance, please contact the local sheriff’s department.

  There it is, in black and white, and it’s still hard to believe. Chad lost his wife, followed by his son. I know how much pain can change a person, and I certainly haven’t trusted anyone enough to share all of my story. But I’m still a bit confused as to why he’s never mentioned his family. And oh my god, the anniversary is tomorrow, and I flirted with him this morning like a disrespectful idiot.

  Someone’s been breathing down my neck for a while, so I finally relent and hand over the computer station. A theory is forming in my subconscious, and it directs me to the microfiche files. Two hours later, I emerge equally sickened and victorious. There is a pattern to these disappearances, and it’s not something that started recently.

  I’ve found evidence of U.P. teenagers – along with the occasional adult – vanishing off the face of the Earth in quantities ranging from one to five per year, every year, going back at least two decades. All of them lived within three miles of Lake Superior. Their hometowns were located between the Porcupine Mountains and the Pictured Rocks. Even odder, every single missing person who fits into this pattern disappeared between early November and late March. Most of the cases center around the months of November and December, though.

  The microfiche paints a disturbing picture. Aside from the vast catalog of disappearances I’ve uncovered – fifty-nine, to be exact – the level of reporting on each case has dwindled with each missing teen. By five years ago, most cases were given one line of text buried in the back. A few teenagers only made it into the paper when their parents paid for an ad.

  What in the world is going on here?

  I’m reeling from the massive scope of this ever-expanding mystery, so I ignore it when the temperature changes and the sickly scent of roses wafts toward my nostrils.

  “Are you going to find them?”

  Jolted, I look all around and see no one. My senses have returned, and the emotions surrounding this specter are quite strong. I make sure the door to the microfiche room is closed before I quietly open my mouth.

  “I’m going to try.”

  “Well, that would definitely be a first,” the ghost librarian says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Those missing kids should be all over the national news, and the FBI should be scouring the area for them. But that’s never happened, nor is it ever going to. Some superstitions go way too deeply.”

  “I don’t understand…”

  “Until you do, you won’t find them.”

  “Can you help me? Give me something, anything, to help me figure it out.”

  She appears to ponder my pleading request. A lightbulb comes on in her mind. And I mean that quite literally, by the way. A dim spectral light bulb lights up the inside of what has now become her transparent brain. This is a new trick, but I don’t have time to fully appreciate it. Don’t ask me how or why, but I know the clock is ticking. And much like the symbolic Doomsday Clock that’s been counting down to mankind’s self-imposed destruction since the late 1940s, I swear I can hear time rapidly speeding up.

  “You’ve been on the right track all along. Follow your instincts. Listen to them, not to what anyone else says. Everyone has a part to play in this, even those of us in the spirit world. This is far bigger than you can imagine.”

  My face becomes slack and even paler than usual as the enormity of what I’ve learned sends me spiraling into the darkness. The last thing I hear before everything goes black is “hurry!”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Ammonia infiltrates my nostrils, and I jolt awake in a haze of coughing and retching. The world comes back into view. There’s a tiny, elderly woman peering at me.

  “Oh, good! It worked,” she says. “I’ve only seen smelling salts used in the movies before. Kind of exciting to give them a whirl.”

  “Uhhhhh,” I moan. “W-what? Sorry. I-I’ll get up.”

  “Oh, pish posh. You need to lie back and regain your strength. I bet you have low blood sugar! Happens to me all the time. I’ll be right back!”

  My eyes reopen as a delightful aroma catches my attention. Could it be?

  “Here you go, dear. A bite of fudge will cure what ails ya!”

  She’s brought me mouthwateringly delicious fudge! If anyone is in angel in disguise in this town, it’s definitely the white-haired woman who is looking down at me as I eat. My moans of discomfort turn into those of appreciation for a delectable treat.

  “Locally made,” she says. “Better than Mackinac fudge, if you ask me. And that’s a tall order!”

  She chuckles as I inhale the last bite. Normally, I’d take a second to myself to look for crumbs in my teeth, but if the ghost I met a few minutes ago is right, there’s no time for such vanities. I climb back into the barely cushioned seat to strategize my next move.

  “Do you get low blood sugar often?”

  “Huh? Oh, no. That wasn’t what it was,” I murmur while rifling through my notes.

  “Then what? Don’t tell me! You saw a ghost, right?”

  My head whirls quickly around in her direction. There’s a hint of a laugh on her lips, and I can’t decide if she’s messing with me or if she knows something.

  “Everyone’s seen ‘ol Mabel’s handiwork at one time or another, dear. I’m sure she didn’t mean to give you a fright. Must be your first paranormal encounter?”

  “Um, no. Far from it… Mabel, you said? Who is she?”

  “Legend has it she was Munising’s first librarian, although I wouldn’t know for sure. I might be old, but I’m not that old.” It’s then I notice how warm the elderly woman’s laugh is. She’s got an inviting smile, too. She might be a good source of information.

  “Speaking of ghosts… have you noticed that a lot of people go missing in this area?” I ask.

  Her eyes narrow a bit, but the gregarious spark within them stays ignited. “Whatever do you mean, dear?”

  “Well, for example, between local talk and the newspaper, it’s clear there’s at least three missing person cases from the past year involving teens from Munising.”

  “Three, you say? I know two boys wandered off. I haven’t heard about the third.”

  “Do you think they could be connected?”

  She clutches her hands together, extends the two pointer fingers, and rests them on her lips. “I think there’s a lot of things we don’t know about. And probably a few things we ignore that we shouldn’t. Have I heard any proof that these things are connected, though? No. Not at all.”

  I can’t figure out if she’s telling the truth. It’s time to switch tactics.

  “Have you talked to Mabel?”

  This catches her off guard. I can see she’s struggling to decide how much to say, so I try to help her out. “I ask because I did. She certainly had some interesting things to say.”

  With wide eyes, she reaches out and grabs one of my hands. “You really talked to her?” she asks with wonderment dripping from each syllable.

  “Yes.”

  “Was this the first time?”

  “Do you mean with Mabel or ghosts in general?”

  She shuts the door to the microfiche room to ensure our privacy. “Mabel pops up occasionally to scare people, but they all repo
rt hearing a bunch of moans. It’s different for you, I take it?”

  “It is, yes.”

  “I have so many questions! Do you think you could talk to her now? You can translate!”

  My inner balloon of hope springs a leak and starts deflating. For a second, I thought I might have stumbled upon someone else who can see and talk to them like me. Many have asked me to serve as a go-between, so that’s nothing new. It might be useful in this situation to have a valuable resource like two librarians on my side, though.

  “I can try. Mabel? Are you still here?”

  A stack of microfiche containers crashes to the floor. The living librarian flinches, but quickly recovers.

  “Why are you still here? Go. Stop this madness while there’s still time!” Mabel replies.

  “There!” the elderly librarian says. “I heard the moaning, but what did she say?”

  I’m torn between my lie of being an author and my need to solve this case. Then I realize I can tell the truth, I just don’t have to admit I have any idea what it means.

  “Well… she asked me why I’m still here and told me to go stop the madness while there’s still time.”

  She scrunches her eyebrows and appears to be working on the meaning of what she sees as a puzzling statement. “Stop the madness? That’s what she said? Honestly?”

  A few seconds pass in silence, then the veil of puzzlement lifts from her face and comprehension shines in her eyes. She’s put two and two together. Now I have to wait to see if the answer is a helpful four.

  She twists uncomfortably in the chair she’s just claimed. “Missing teens. Ghosts. Stop the madness. And you. Where do you fit into all this?” I don’t attempt an answer as I recognize she’s asking herself, not me.

  We’re silent for one full revolution of the second hand before she speaks again. Nervousness tinges the edges of her words, but she speaks them with confidence. “Do you know much about local legends, dear? Ever heard of the wendigo?”

  I’m happy she’s on the same track as me now, but I can’t believe there’s yet another person who is going to try to explain things away with a mythical, supernatural creature.

  “I’ve heard of it, yes.”

  “My grandpa told me the wendigo are real. He said when the winter brings pain and suffering, you know wendigos are near.” She clasps her hands together again and leans forward conspiratorially. “I’ve never seen one, mind you. I’m pretty sure they don’t exist. But what if they do? Or what if their legend is being exploited to cover something up?”

  Fireworks spark through the sky in my mind. This is exactly the point I’ve been missing by stubbornly shaking my head at something that’s so seemingly ridiculous. They don’t have to exist. Someone merely needs to make people believe it’s possible enough that they can get away with… well, whatever it is they’re doing. And I’d bet dollars to doughnuts it has something to do with those missing teens and Isle Royale.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As much as I had wanted to somehow go running off to Isle Royale after my visit to the library, I knew it was critical to do some self-care first, including getting a solid night’s sleep. That’s why I’m just now waking up to my morning seven-thirty a.m. alarm. This is my seventh day in Munising. It’s also the three-year anniversary of Chad’s wife being declared legally dead. I don’t know if I should go try to support him nonchalantly or if it would be best to just leave him alone for the day.

  What I do know is that I’m jonesing for another plate of waffles and the biggest coffee cup this city has ever seen. Leslie doesn’t show up this morning, but that’s fine because we didn’t firm up any plans to meet again for breakfast. After settling my tab and leaving the most generous tip I can afford, I bundle up to face the continuously plummeting temperatures.

  The wind makes it hard to breathe. Fallen leaves skitter around my feet, and the ominous dark clouds promise the season’s first snowfall. A flurry of activity catches my attention on the far side of the parking lot, next to the public sidewalk. A woman in her forties is cursing a light pole that has apparently thwarted her efforts at hanging up a flyer. I figure she’s missing a beloved pet and rush over to help out.

  “Can I help you with that, ma’am?”

  Her raccoon eyes and black smudged cheeks are indicative of someone who hasn’t slept or cleaned their face in several days. She’s definitely grieving a loss, but her aching, haunted eyes tell me instantly that the flyer in her hand is for a missing child. Willing myself to stay calm and not overwhelm her, I speak again.

  “Here, let me try.”

  At first, her face turns borderline vicious in the same way a dog sizes up someone who might be trouble. Her features soon sag, though, and her body crumples in resignation after handing me the flyer and thumbtacks.

  The pole is harder than week old biscuits, but I manage to drive the red thumbtack in place on my third attempt. Having completed my good Samaritan work for the day, I read the flyer carefully, analyzing each word for hidden clues.

  MISSING – Todd Jenkins. Age: Sixteen. Last seen on November Eighth, wearing a black knit hat, black jacket, red long-sleeved thermal shirt, blue jeans, and black Converse. Reward for information that leads to his recovery.

  “I’m looking for a couple of missing teens, too. Do you have any info to share that’s not on the flyer?”

  My words don’t have the desired effect. Instead of getting more clues that could help both of us, she falls to the ground, crying and shrieking hysterically. I can’t calm her down, nor can I leave her wailing on the sidewalk. After a moment’s hesitation, I call Chad.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “There you go, Mrs. Muller,” Chad says as he helps the grieving woman into the police cruiser. I step up to say a weak goodbye before he shuts the door. Her hand trembles as it reaches for the front of my jacket.

  “Don’t let them bury this,” she hisses through another round of sobs. “When the boys go missing in this town, they never come back. God help me, they never come back.” The front of her thick winter coat is covered in tears, and it’s so cold some of them are already transforming into frost.

  Chad shuts the back door, thanks me, and plops onto the driver’s seat. As he drives away, I realize he had none of his usual swagger. It was like seeing a hollowed-out version of the sheriff. A tear escapes my left eye, and it stings me as the wind whips it from my face. It’s no surprise that he’s not acting like his normal self today, but I still feel helpless. How can I help someone I barely know, especially when he hasn’t told me about his family yet?

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Wayne answers the phone after the second ring. “Hello?” His voice warms my stomach and calms my mind.

  “Hi, Wayne. It’s me, Alex.”

  “Hello! It’s nice to hear from you,” he says, and I hear the sincerity in his voice yet again. Wayne is definitely the most stable and open of my two current romantic interests. Which is exactly why I’ve called him.

  “I need your help with something.”

  “Happy to help, if I can. What’s going on?”

  I pause a beat before responding. Once I plunge ahead, there’s no turning back from this.

  “I really need to check out Isle Royale, Wayne.”

  “Great, come on up in April, and I’ll make sure you’re one of the first people to reach the island during the new tourist season.”

  My forefinger and thumb pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration. I’m fairly confident he’s being purposefully obtuse about what I’m really saying. “That’s not what I mean. This can’t wait.”

  “Alex, no. I’ve told you why you can’t… why you mustn’t go there during the off-season. You’ll get yourself killed!”

  “Not if I have a skilled guide with me,” I coo. I hate playing the role of a damsel in distress, and I dislike manipulating him in this way even more. But this isn’t like my past. If I don’t get his help, people are going to keep disappearing.

  “Level with me, Alex.
What’s really going on here?”

  “What are you doing in a couple of hours?”

  “Nothing special. Why?”

  “Can I come see you? I’ll explain everything then, I promise.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “You’re a what?” Wayne asks. He’s baffled, that much is clear, but he also doesn’t seem as ruffled by the idea as I thought he might.

  “I go from place to place giving advice to ghosts. It’s kind of like ghost therapy in that it helps them get closure so they can move on.” In the past, I would have said these words with a sheepish tone while staring pointedly at the ground. But today is different. I’m emboldened by the depth of this mystery and by how many people seem to be involved in it.

  He shifts in his seat, takes a drink of a local beer, and looks me straight in the eye. We hold each other’s gaze for a moment. It’s as if he’s searching for something deep in my soul. Most likely, he’s trying to figure out whether or not he needs to call the local mental hospital. If he tells them to pick me up, that’s really going to put a damper on any future dates.

  “Okay, Alex. Let’s say that’s true. I’m not saying it is, but I see you truly believe it. What in the world does that have to do with going to Isle Royale in November? That’s crazy!”

  I see his eyes flicker with the possibility that me wanting to do something he deems crazy is further proof my ghost story is nuts, too. Before I can lose him down this unwelcome line of thought, I reach my hand out and place it on top of his.

  “Wayne, I know this sounds nuts. You don’t think I know that? I tried to tell myself it was just insanity for the longest time. But it’s really not.”

  “But…”

  I interrupt. “This is my life. It’s the only thing that’s ever actually made any sense. These people… these spirits, they need help. And I just happen to be able to give it to them. Well, most of the time, anyway.”