by CW Hawes
Stairway to Hell
A Pierce Mostyn Paranormal Investigation
CW Hawes
Table of Contents
Title
Join the Team!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Pierce Mostyn’s Adventures
Author’s Note
Other Books by CW Hawes
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
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1
Pierce Mostyn was dreaming. Not a pleasant dream by any means. One of those nightmares that are so very vivid and yet, upon awakening, cannot be recalled other than in the feeling of dread they leave behind upon the conscious soul.
In the distance he heard music and his name being called. An insistent nudging joined the music and the words now being spoken to him. Suddenly the dream-state vanished, and Mostyn remembered where he was.
“Damn it, Mostyn. Answer your phone before the neighbors complain.”
He sat, picked up the smartphone, and said, “Mostyn.” The clock on the nightstand informed him the time was 3:08 in the morning. In his ear he heard, “Bardon, here.”
“Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning, Mostyn. And a very good morning it is indeed. Come in ASAP. Doctor Kemper with you?”
Mostyn cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.”
“She’s to come in as well. See you shortly.”
The silence indicated the call was over, and Mostyn set his phone down.
“What is it?”
Mostyn looked over at Doctor Dotty Kemper. “How the hell does Bardon know about us? I mean, I thought we were being sufficiently circumspect that even God was in the dark.”
“Pierce, dear, I guess that shows Bardon’s voodoo is greater than God’s omniscience.”
“Huh. I guess so. Well, he wants us in the office pronto. You want to shower first?”
“We’ll save time if we shower together.”
“I doubt that. But I’m willing to give it a try.”
***
The office of Doctor Rafe Bardon smelled of sweet Virginia pipe tobacco. Mostly because Bardon was rarely seen without a pipe in his mouth or in his hand. The decor of his office was nineteenth century British men’s club. The Director of the Office of Unidentified Phenomena, or OUP, an agency so secret fewer than fifty persons in all of the vast federal bureaucracy even knew of its existence, sat at his large and heavy black walnut desk, puffing gently on a dark brown pot-shaped briar pipe. Across from him sat Pierce Mostyn and Dotty Kemper in an identical pair of Westminster tufted leather chesterfield chairs in dark chocolate. Bardon removed the pipe from his mouth.
“Either of you ever hear of Binger, Oklahoma?”
Mostyn and Kemper both shook their heads.
“Up through the nineteen twenties there were persistent reports of unnatural occurrences on a mound located not far from the town. A headless female specter at night and a male specter in the day. Because of persistent rumors of treasure, numerous men visited the mound. A few came back unscathed, a few more came back deranged, and more than a few never came back at all.
“The last visitor was in nineteen twenty-eight, an ethnologist by the name of Howard Langley. He claimed to have found a cylinder made of a strange and unknown metal, which contained a manuscript written by one Pánfilo de Zamacona y Nuñez, supposedly a conquistador with Coronado.
“Zamacona, according to the manuscript, had discovered a vast subterranean world inhabited by a highly advanced race of decadent and xenophobic beings. Langley, in his last visit to the mound, claims to have actually gone into the mound, which was an ancient passageway to the subterranean world of K’n-yan. However, something frightened him to such a degree that he dropped the cylinder containing the manuscript and thus it is lost.”
“Sounds like a load of crap to me,” Kemper said. “I mean, who in his right mind would take such a valuable manuscript with him back to where he found it? Why not keep it in a safe place?”
Bardon puffed on his pipe. “Perhaps the story is ‘crap’, as you say, Doctor Kemper. And the loss of the manuscript certainly places the story under much suspicion. Nevertheless, Langley insisted on the truth of his account. He wrote it down, including a summary of Zamacona’s adventure in K’n-yan. The account was found among his papers after his death. It was thought to be a story and was published in a magazine: Weird Tales, if memory services me correct, sometime in the nineteen forties. A while ago, this office acquired Langley’s original manuscript. Of particular interest is the fact that the K’n-yanians, according to his tale, worshipped Cthulhu, Yig, Shub-Niggurath, and for a time the sublimely hideous Tsathaggua.”
At the names, Kemper visibly blanched, and a shiver went through her.
“Are you alright, Doctor Kemper?” Bardon asked.
She swallowed and nodded. Mostyn, though, couldn’t help but notice the tremors in her hands.
“Agate Bay was life altering,” the Director said, his voice soft. “A shoggoth will do that to one.”
Kemper nodded again, and uttered a barely audible, “Yes”.
In a fatherly tone, Bardon said, “If you don’t feel ready, you can sit this one out.”
“No, I’ll be alright, Doctor Bardon,” she replied.
Mostyn asked, “Is the mound still there, sir?”
“No. After the Innsmouth episode, the Bureau of Investigation, now known as the FBI, somehow got wind of Langley’s story. That was in the early nineteen thirties. How they became aware of his account of the mound is unknown, but even back then Mr Hoover was compiling the beginnings of the infamous X Files. So I suppose they had their ways, just as I have mine.” Bardon paused and a smile touched his lips, then he continued.
“Anyway, the Bureau learned of Langley’s tale. The US Army Corps of Engineers then moved in and completely leveled the mound. Nothing was noted in the official record if there was an entrance to a subterranean world or not. The mound was bombed, dynamited, and bulldozed into oblivion. Quite obviously, I think, especially after Innsmouth, the Federal government wasn’t going to take any chances.”
“Has something come up in Binger that you want us to investigate?” Mostyn asked.
“No. There’s nothing there anymore. However, fifty miles to the northwest of Binger, near Oakwood, Oklahoma, is a Federal Department of Energy research facility on the west bank of the Canadian River, which is managed by Bessemer Corporation. The facility is in the middle of nowhere. Just farmland all around it.”
“So what’s the big deal?” Kemper asked.
“Work crews were breaking ground for an
expansion of the facility, and uncovered an ancient staircase. Photographs of the bas-reliefs carved into the stone show images of debauchery, mutilation, and representations of Cthulhu, Shub-Niggurath, and Tsathaggua. In addition, since the uncovering, four workers have disappeared and have not been found. A fifth was missing for four days. He was discovered wandering the farm fields, his mind totally gone.”
“What do you mean ‘totally gone’?” Kemper asked.
“Just what I said. It’s as though his personality was wiped clean. He is under observation in a secret Federal facility. Our mission is to find out what is going on, determine if there is a threat to US security, and if there is, to neutralize it in order for the Department of Energy to continue work on expanding the research facility.”
“Same old stuff,” Mostyn quipped.
“Indeed, Mostyn, indeed.” Bardon pushed a folder across his desk, and Mostyn retrieved it. “That is an abstract of the file on the Binger situation. The full file is on the computer. You have a flight at nine to Oklahoma City, where you will meet the other members of your team, and from Oklahoma City you will proceed by helicopter to the facility. You and your team members will have papers and cards identifying you as agents of the Department of Energy’s Intelligence and Counter-Intelligence Division. That should give you free reign to do what needs to be done. Temporary housing is being moved onto the facility property as we speak. Any questions?”
“No, sir,” Mostyn said, and Dotty Kemper shook her head.
“Very good. This situation if it is anything like that in Binger all those years ago could prove to be dangerous. There will be four Army military police and four Army Rangers available for your use should you require their services, as well as our special weaponry.”
“Thank you, sir,” Mostyn said.
“If nothing else, I wish you the best of luck.” Bardon stood, and extended his hand. Mostyn and Kemper stood, shook hands with their boss, and left his office.
On the way to Mostyn’s car, Kemper asked, “Do you think we’ll run into…?”
“A shoggoth?” Mostyn completed her sentence for her.
She nodded.
He paged through the abstract before answering and when he’d reached the last page, he said, “No. No shoggoths. However, given what’s in here—” He tapped the folder. “You might prefer one.”
2
The helicopter took off, and seven people watched it disappear over the eastern tree line. A uniformed military police officer approached the group.
“I’m Sergeant First Class Jerome Chestnut. I’m the commanding officer of the police unit here. Which one of you is Special Agent in Charge Mostyn?”
Mostyn raised his hand.
Chestnut advanced to him and extended his hand. Mostyn took it and nearly got his fingers crushed in the handshake.
“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” Chestnut said.
“Likewise,” Mostyn replied, left hand rubbing the fingers of his right.
“Let me show you all to your quarters.”
The sergeant took the OUP team, masquerading as Department of Energy Intelligence and Counter-Intelligence agents, around to the back of the large building where two mobile homes were located. The prefab buildings were nestled in among the trees growing along the bank of the Canadian River. For having just been moved onto the property, they looked as though they’d been there for years.
Chestnut pointed to one of the buildings. Lettered in black paint by the door was “GAB 1”. “For the ladies in your party, sir,” he explained. “You men are in GAB Two.”
“What does the designation mean?” Kemper asked.
“Guest Accommodations Building One, ma’am. The other being building number two.”
Kemper nodded.
“There’s a phone and a directory in each building,” Sergeant Chestnut explained. “Doctor Obermaier will have dinner with you all in the cafeteria at six. I will be back before then to guide you to the cafeteria. Any questions?”
There were none, and Chestnut said he’d see them later and left.
Kemper turned to Mostyn and whispered, “Are we going to have to start addressing you as ‘sir’?”
“Very funny, Dot,” he whispered back. In a normal voice, he said, “Get settled. Beames, Slezak, and you, Kemper, come over to the guy’s place in twenty for a pre-dinner meeting.”
“Yes, sir, Captain, sir!” Kemper said, and saluted.
A chorus of “yes, sirs” and salutes followed. Mostyn shook his head, picked up his bag, and entered GAB 2, the men on his team followed, just barely suppressing their laughter.
The living room contained a television, sofa, loveseat, a couple of tub chairs, a small coffee table, and a couple of tiny end tables. To the immediate right of the entrance was the door to a bedroom, to the left was a kitchen and dining room. A backdoor exited from the dining room, and in front of it were a table and six chairs. Beyond the dining room were the bathroom and laundry facilities, and finally the other bedroom. In the bedroom were two single beds.
Mostyn turned to the other men, who’d been following him through the pre-fab house. “Baker and I will take this room. Zink, Jones, you get the other bedroom. Hopefully, the cafeteria is full service so we won’t have to cook.”
Special Agent Jones walked back to the kitchen. “Can any of you cook?”
Mostyn shook his head. Initial contact with the early thirty-something model for a Greek god had not impressed him. On meeting, Jones had announced, “I’m Special Agent Diesel Chance Jones.” He then used two fingers to pull his sunglasses down his nose, and looking right at Kemper, had said, “But you can call me ‘DC’.” The last thing Mostyn needed on the team was a playboy.
Doctor Zink answered Jones. “I can cook. In fact, better than any woman. It’s why I never married.”
Jones looked over at the aging, somewhat out of shape archeologist. “Sure it is, you virile hunk of beefcake.”
“What the hell would you know—,” Zink began, before Baker cut him off.
“I can open cans and throw frozen stuff into the microwave. They do have a microwave, don’t they?”
Jones asked, “What do they look like?”
“Jesus,” Mostyn muttered. In his normal voice, he said, “Zink and I will cook, if we have to. I don’t want chef’s surprise, especially from you two.” His eyes focusing on Jones and Baker.
“Geez, Mostyn,” Baker protested. “What’s wrong with canned baked beans?”
“Nothing, Willie Lee. Nothing. Better than ptomaine.”
Mostyn retrieved his bag from where he’d left it in the living room when entering, and took it to his bedroom, Baker following suit. When they returned to the living room, Jones was stretched out on the sofa, his bag lying where he’d dropped it. Zink was missing. However noise was coming from the bedroom, which indicated he was most likely there. And in a few moments, he emerged to join the others.
There was a knock on the door.
“Jones, put your bag in your room,” Mostyn ordered.
The tall, broad-shouldered agent grabbed his travel bag, tossed it into his room, and opened the door in answer to the knock. “Come on in, ladies!” he sang out.
Doctors Esther Beames, Candy Slezak, and Dotty Kemper joined the others in the living room.
“Have a seat everyone,” Mostyn said. He looked over his team. Kemper and Baker he knew from long association due to previous assignments. Kemper was a renowned forensic anthropologist and Baker, an award-winning photographer. The others were all new to him. He mentally recalled their dossiers as he took them in.
Esther Beames, an ethnologist specializing in Native cultures, was a short woman with thick glasses and long black hair that she wore in a ponytail. She was three-quarters Native American, forty-eight, and single.
Candy Slezak, with a doctorate in linguistics, was very tall and slender. Her light brown hair was liberally highlighted in hot pink. At twenty-nine, she had a face that was not at all difficult to look at.
Doctor Butcher Thomas Zink, at six feet even, could look Slezak in the eyes. He had a stocky build and, at fifty-two, was beginning to grow a potbelly. He was the other person on the team who wore glasses. He taught archeology, but was more often out in the field somewhere.
Special Agent “DC” Jones was everything Mostyn didn’t care for in an agent. At six-three, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, he was an imposing sight. Add to that his blonde hair and blue eyes, and he could have been a Greek god, or a model for the cover of a romance novel. But it wasn’t his physique Mostyn disliked; it was Jones’s cocksure attitude, and that the agent saw himself as Casanova’s successor.
Regardless of his thoughts concerning any team member, they had a mission to undertake. Which meant they all had to rely on and support each other in order for it to succeed.
“None of you are new to OUP operations,” Mostyn began. “I trust you’ve familiarized yourself with our mission and each other’s dossier. Tomorrow we begin our exploration of the tunnel system the construction workers uncovered. Our mission is Code Red. And while I don’t insist on formality, I do insist on obedience. Our lives may depend on it.”
Beames raised her hand, and Mostyn indicated she should speak. “By obedience, do you mean we can’t question your decisions?”
“Unless I say otherwise, all decisions are ‘me’ decisions. I’m the one who decides.”
“Why?” Zink asked.
“Because I’m in charge, and I’m the one Bardon will hold responsible if this blows up.”