by CW Hawes
Nightmare in Agate Bay
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
Author’s Note
Other Books by CW Hawes
Dedication
Copyright
Acknowledgements
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1
The plane was beginning its final descent into Duluth. Special Agent in Charge Pierce Mostyn looked over the contents of the envelope he’d received that morning from Doctor Rafe Bardon, Director of the Office of Unidentified Phenomena. The letter contained the small, neat script of his boss. Complete with British spellings, even though Doctor Bardon had been in the States for over a dozen years. There was also, wafting from the paper, the faint scent of the doctor’s pipe tobacco. A sweet Virginia blend.
As usual, the letter opened with a brief outline of the case, went on to include more detailed background information, plus file numbers to related cases. The second page contained the names of the members of his team for this assignment. The mission itself was simple: find out if there was any truth to the rumors regarding the inhabitants of Agate Bay, Minnesota and, if true, assess if the situation posed a threat to the security of the United States of America.
His team was comprised of two scientists, a photographer, and an additional special agent. Two of the names he was very familiar with, having worked with them before. In fact, they were assigned to him for most of his cases. Pretty much the only regular team members he had.
Mostyn re-folded the letter, slipped it into the envelope, and put the envelope in his inside suit coat pocket. He leaned back in his seat, preparing for the jolt of the jet’s wheels hitting the tarmac and the braking, which always made him feel as though he was going to be propelled into the seat in front of him.
To his relief, this pilot was good. He barely felt the jet touch down, although the braking was no different than on any other flight. Mostyn had a briefcase under the seat in front of him and an overnight bag stored in the overhead compartment. The rest of his equipment was in the jet’s storage hold. He was the only passenger. The jet had no markings other than its registration number and a small American flag on the tailfin.
Mostyn deplaned with his briefcase and bag. The other equipment would be taken to a nondescript building on Airpark Boulevard by OUP agents. That’s also where he’d meet his team members in the evening. In the meantime, his driver would take him to a hotel.
He walked down the jetway towards the terminal. A man of averages. Average height. Average weight. Average looks. The only physical feature that could be said to be distinguishing was his short strawberry blond hair. Even so, he could still walk past most people and they’d remember nothing about him.
His suit was expensive. Dark chocolate in color. The shirt was a shade of pale blue, custom made by one of the finest tailors in the DC area. He wore a repp tie of brown and blue stripes. A very pale red handkerchief stylishly adorned the jacket’s breast pocket. The outfit was one that might catch the eye of certain individuals.
Upon entering the terminal, he spotted the black-suited woman holding a card with his last name printed on it and walked over to her.
“I’m Mostyn.”
“Special Agent Biyanka Patel, sir. Pleased to meet you. I’m very much looking forward to this assignment, sir. This opportunity to work with you.”
Mostyn took in the fresh scrubbed face, the eagerness of a new agent to please the one in charge. “You might not think that when we’re done, Patel.”
“How’s that, sir?”
“How long have you been with OUP?”
“Three weeks, sir.”
“Where were you before this?”
“DIA.”
“Defense Intelligence Agency?”
“Yes, sir. Before that I was in Swick.”
Mostyn raised his eyebrows. “A Navy Special Warfare Combatant-craft Crewman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why did you join OUP?”
“When I was young, about twelve, I saw my grandmother working in our garden.”
“Okay.”
“She’d been dead for three years, yet there she was. Just like these chairs.” She waved her hand towards the rows of seats in the waiting area.
“I see. Bardon found out and recruited you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are the others here?”
“They’re at their respective hotels. All except for Doctor Kemper, sir.”
“Very good. Let’s get on with it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Patel?”
“Yes, sir?”
“We’re fairly informal on this team. Mostyn will do.”
“Yes, sir. Uh, Mostyn.”
He smiled and indicated she should lead the way.
Mostyn followed her out of the terminal building to the black four door sedan. She got in the driver’s seat and he took the passenger’s, after tossing his bags onto the backseat.
He was surprised at how warm the November day was in Duluth. He’d had visions of snow on the ground and flakes flying in the air. The temperature was in the low sixties and the sun was shining. No clouds at all in the sky. The wind, though, was gusting up to thirty miles per hour. He was glad it was not coming in off Lake Superior.
Patel started the sedan and drove out of the airport. They were at the hotel in a couple minutes.
“Where are you staying, Patel?”
“Here, sir, but on a different floor.”
Mostyn smiled at her use of “sir” and nodded his head in acknowledgement of her answer. He got out of the car, retrieved his bags, and watched Patel drive out the hotel’s drive and back to the airport. He turned to the front door and checked his watch. There was plenty of time to get to his room, freshen up, and prepare for tonight’s meeting.
***
The two scientists and the photographer were waiting for him when he and Patel arrived in the small meeting room. He smiled at Doctor Dotty Kemper and the photographer, Willie Lee Baker. They were the ones he’d worked with numerous times before during the past five years, since he’d accepted reassignment from the FBI to the Office of Unidentified Phenomena.
There were probably agencies more secret than the OUP, but if there were Mostyn didn’t know about them. It was rumored less than fifty men and women knew of the ultra-secret office he worked for. In point of fact, Mostyn was still officially listed as an FBI agent and his pay still came from the Bureau.
He extended his hand to the person he didn’t know. “Pierce Mostyn.”
The thirtyish, bespectacled, and rather nerdy looking fellow took his hand and replied, “Travis Templeton. I’m your physical anthropologist.”
Mostyn nodded and turned his attention to the others. “Hi, Dot, Willie. Good to see you again.”
Willie gave him a lazy salute and said, “Mostyn.
”
Dotty shifted in her seat and put her hands behind her head. “So what is it this time? Space aliens living on some remote island in Superior or mutant yetis on a cannibalistic rampage in the Boundary Waters Wilderness Area?”
Mostyn chuckled and sat in an empty chair at the table. “Neither. Tomorrow morning we’ll be driving up to the little town of Agate Bay. Rumors about the inhabitants have come to someone’s attention, someone high up enough that they could apprise the Director of the FBI. However, Doctor Bardon learned of the rumors and claimed jurisdiction.”
“Which explains why we’re spending the weekend on the backend of nowhere,” Dotty finished.
A hint of a smile crossed Mostyn’s lips. “Something like that.”
“So what’s the story?” Baker asked.
Mostyn became serious. “The possibility exists of some manner of disease affecting the inhabitants. According to the rumors, it’s a localized occurrence. It hasn’t spread to nearby Two Harbors or down here to Duluth.”
“Isn’t that kind of odd?” Templeton asked.
“That’s why we’re here and not the CDC,” Kemper said. “Someone thinks it’s too odd and Bardon agrees. Which also means that what we hear isn’t necessarily what we’ll end up seeing.”
“What does that mean?” Templeton asked.
Kemper smiled at the newbie. “I’ll let the boss explain.”
“Thanks, Kemper,” Mostyn said. He turned to Templeton. “What the good doctor means is that we aren’t often told the whole truth of the situation. Although to be fair, sometimes Bardon doesn’t know the whole truth.”
Kemper snorted a laugh. “Yeah, right, Mostyn. There’s a bridge—”
He waved away her retort and she laughed.
Templeton shook his head at the banter and asked, “Do we have any idea of the symptoms of this supposed disease?”
“We’ve been told a few things,” Mostyn replied. “The disease appears to be some manner of degenerative affliction. Symptoms start showing up when a person is in his or her twenties or thirties, gets progressively worse, until the person is so deformed even the locals keep him or her out of sight.”
“What are the symptoms?” Kemper asked.
“Supposedly quite hideous,” Mostyn answered. “The disease affects skin and bones. The skin gradually changes color to a grayish green and becomes scabrous. The hair falls out and the eyes become bulging and the person rarely, if ever, blinks. The skeleton becomes misshapen. The head elongates and the limbs become deformed to the extent that the fingers become fused together and the legs and feet are so affected a normal human gait becomes impossible.”
“Sounds hideous,” Patel said.
“Yes, it does,” Mostyn replied.
“Probably someone in a Halloween costume,” Kemper said, a hint of disgust in her voice.
“Could be,” Mostyn agreed. “Although the prank would get a little old after close to a hundred and thirty years.”
Kemper was undeterred. “Maybe it’s something in their water.”
“Maybe,” Mostyn said, a smile touching his lips. He continued, “We’ll find out tomorrow. Our mission is to drive to Agate Bay and talk to the people, if we can. They are reported to be suspicious of outsiders. Especially government types. Which is why we need to maintain our cover as tourists.”
Patel was looking at her phone. “According to the maps,” she tapped the device, “the main road bypasses Agate Bay and the town looks to be surrounded by pretty dense forest.” She looked up at the group. “They can’t get many tourists, cut off like that.”
“Which could explain why they’re suspicious of outsiders,” Baker said.
“Any questions?” Mostyn asked.
“If we’re just going there to talk to people, why am I here instead of, say, a medical doctor?” Patel asked.
Mostyn thought a moment before answering, “You’re here to provide protection for the civilians should they need it. Like the Boy Scouts, we’re prepared. Any other questions?”
There were none, and the meeting broke up, with Patel taking Templeton and Baker to their hotels first. When Kemper and Mostyn were alone, Kemper said, “That was a good cover, Mostyn.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. She’s really here to put lead into your and Bardon’s boogeymen.”
2
The morning sky was clear and the temperature cold. Mid-thirties, with a wind blowing right out of Canada. Patel had exchanged the sedan for a big black SUV in order to better carry the team members and their gear. The drive to Agate Bay took just under an hour.
For most of the trip, Mostyn and his team had a clear view of trees. Trees on their left, the inland side, and trees on their right, the side toward Lake Superior. Once out of Duluth, there were only occasional houses to break the monotony of the evergreens. Minnesota Route 61 was pretty much like any other four-lane highway.
At one point Templeton quipped, “I’m glad we’re going in the day. At night I don’t think I could see my own hand even if it were right in front of my face.”
There were murmurs of agreement.
Minnesota 61 turned into a two-lane road outside of Two Harbors and the team was able to get a better view of the lake.
“Looks like the ocean,” Patel said.
“I’ve been out there on a boat,” Baker said, “and let me tell you, you really do think you’re on the ocean. That is one big lake.”
After several miles, the GPS announced the turn off to Agate Bay. However, Patel nearly missed it because it was not at all clearly marked. Once on the road, they discovered the pavement ceased a hundred feet from the turn and was replaced by a gravel road from which most of the gravel had disappeared. The pine, spruce, and fir trees pressed in on the nearly abandoned looking road, blotting out much of the sun, and casting an unnatural gloom.
The big SUV bumped, shimmied, and slew through the potholes and ruts. When the right front tires hit one particularly deep pothole the steering wheel was wrenched out of Patel’s hands. After several colorful words which made clear her having been a sailor, the vehicle continued down the road toward their destination.
Templeton said, “There’s no traffic. Don’t these people go anywhere?”
“According to the notes from Bardon, there are a few businesses in Agate Bay and the owners make occasional trips to Two Harbors or Duluth,” Mostyn answered. “Otherwise, the people pretty much stick to themselves.”
“What kind of businesses?” Baker asked.
“I don’t know,” Mostyn said. “Bardon didn’t elaborate.”
“Probably like any other small town,” Kemper said. “Ten bars to offset the five churches.”
The SUV bounced through a curve in the road and Patel stepped on the brake. Before them was the village of Agate Bay.
“The place looks like a ghost town,” Patel said.
“Maybe the disease finally ate them,” Kemper sneered.
And then, out of one of the dilapidated buildings, a person clumsily shambled, stopped, gazed at the vehicle for a few moments, and then shambled off down the street.
“Better luck next time, Kemper,” Mostyn said.
“Instead of sitting here, maybe we can get on with it,” she shot back.
Patel looked over at Mostyn, who was in the passenger seat.
“Drive on,” he commanded. “Let’s see if we can find an active business. Some people to talk to.”
Patel guided the SUV into the village. On either side of the street were houses in all manner of disrepair; some no longer fit for human habitation, others were boarded up, and a few showed signs that people were still living in them. Curtains might be hanging in the windows or smoke might be drifting from a chimney. All of the buildings needed paint, and more than a few some manner of structural repair.
They had entered the town on 3rd Street and, aside from the lone person they’d seen, the street was strangely empty. At the corner of 3rd and Main, Patel turned left
into what had probably once been the business district. Now on either hand was vacant building after vacant building. However, in the second block there was, in stark contrast to the surrounding buildings due to its newness, a small Super One grocery store.
“Park here, Patel,” Mostyn ordered.
She pulled over to the curb and parked. The team piled out of the vehicle.
“The place reeks of fish,” Templeton said, pinching his nose.
“Must have a processing plant here,” Baker added.
“There’s commercial fishing on the Great Lakes?” Kemper asked.
“Obviously, with this stench,” Templeton said.
Mostyn smiled at Templeton’s slam. Kemper, on the other hand, gave her fellow anthropologist the finger.
The team entered the little grocery. The only people in evidence were a man and a woman. The woman was sitting in the front of the store by one of two cash registers. She looked up from the magazine she was reading, but said nothing. The man was in one of the aisles checking the shelves. He spoke.
“Hi. May I help you?”
Templeton and Baker shook their heads. Kemper asked about the fish smell.
“It’s pretty pervasive. A lot of it comes from the processing plant.”
“Processing plant?” Kemper asked.
“Yeah. This is the most productive fishing spot in all of the Great Lakes. There are always fish here and in tremendous quantities. Rather odd, that, given the declining fish populations in not only the other areas of Superior, but all the lakes.”
“Why do you think that is?” Kemper inquired.
The man’s answer came almost too quick. “Don’t rightly know. Been that way for years. Why do you ask?”
Kemper shrugged. “Curious.”