Screamcatcher: The Shimmering Eye

By Christy J. Breedlove

Eighteen-year-old Jory Pike, a half-blood Chippewa, is depending upon her Native ancestry to help her investigate one of the strangest hauntings she’s ever encountered. A 500-plus acre ranch in rural Montana is under psychic and physical attack. The ranch’s owner, the elderly Ambrose Tucker, is determined to hold steadfast and courageously to his beloved property. Answering an ad in Jory’s outfit, The Badlands Paranormal Society, Ambrose hopes to rid his property of evil spirits once and for all.

Jory and her crew of three other teenagers, each of whom bring to the table their own line of skills and expertise, have brought every known piece of hardware and technical equipment to Granite Springs Ranch. Although the assignment seems ordinary at first, and the answer to the haunting seems eminent, everything spirals out of control and leaves the team terrified. The problem is, they have no idea that they’re being outclassed and sabotaged by a malevolent spirit, who seems to know their every move.

If Jory and the Badlands Paranormal Society don’t solve the problem in quick fashion, they stand to lose the $50,000 extermination fee, but worst of all, they will allow a dangerous and unmerciful entity to unleash a hoard of vicious mythological creatures that will run rampant over the ranch and surrounding properties. Jory has no idea how she and her teammate’s mettle will be tested, bringing them near the edge of insanity, physical endurance and death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melange Books, LLC
• Release date: Apr 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781680469417

Christy J. Breedlove

Chris Stevenson, writing as Christy Breedlove, originally born in California, and moved to Sylvania, Alabama in 2009. His occupations have included newspaper reporter, front-line mechanic and federal police officer. He has been writing off and on for 36 years, having officially published books beginning in 1988. Today he writes science fiction, fantasy, paranormal romance, young adult, adult thrillers and horror. He has a total of 10 titles appearing on Amazon. He was a finalist in the L. Ron. Hubbard Writers of the Future contest, and just recently took the first place grand prize in a YA novel writing contest. He writes the popular blog, Guerrilla Warfare for Writers (special weapons and tactics), hoping to inform and educate writers all over the world about the high points and pitfalls of publishing.

Book preview

Chapter One

Now I’m a monster hunter.

There was a time in her life when seventeen-year-old Jory Pike wished she’d stayed in school. She’d always dreamt of entering college, maybe even a university. Now she felt like some kind of half-assed entrepreneur who’d gotten herself in way over her head. How would she ever make a dent in the world of paranormal investigation?

She had one haunted voluntary dream catcher investigation under her belt, and it had paid a respectable sum. Yet she’d risked the lives of three of her friends and nearly didn’t make it back from a horrifying place. Her Chippewa-Ojibwa knowledge of Indian lore, half of her blood ancestry, had somewhat prepared her for the circumstances. This gave her some measure of entitlement. After all, the Chippewa tribe had created the first dream catcher in ages past, so they’d said, but now she wasn’t so sure.

Jory’s ninety-one-year-old grandfather, Albert White Feather Pike, had helped prepare her for the dream catcher world, and he called it a journey which required opening up the gates of spiritual hell and slamming the gates shut behind her. This time she would create her own hell and have no way to get out of it until she found out what she had to deal with; never mind the solution.

Her grandfather had begged her not to go. He’d held onto her so tightly when she’d entered the van with her friends that he’d torn her blouse. After she’d left and cleared the city limits of Wall, South Dakota, she’d wept. She’d always paid great homage to his wisdom and advice. Not this time, the second occurrence in her life. I’m so sorry Grandfather!

Choice Daniels, her eighteen-year-old boyfriend, had volunteered to take the driver’s seat from Wall, South Dakota, to Sylvania, Montana. For the past fifty miles he’d repeated the same phrase over and over again; "We’re getting closer." She knew he felt a bit south of rattled. When he sighed, he hissed. When he laughed it came out a nervous cackle. All signs of apprehension. Normally, Choice could beat a monster into next Sunday with his breath. He hadn’t shown such confidence lately.

Eighteen-year-old Lander Cunningham, their fix-it man and mechanic, and his sixteen-year-old girlfriend, Darcy, occupied the rear bench seat. Lander didn’t care one way or the other about where he had to go as long as he remained far from his widowed, alcoholic father. Darcy, who’d skipped two grades in high school and qualified for a scholarship, had always had her nose in a book, trying to figure out everything other people couldn’t. Darcy’s parents didn’t believe the lanky, long-haired Lander had a finger bone of Lancelot in him. They’d always questioned his motives, but with time they were starting to warm to him. Darcy had ground down some of his rough edges. His salvation was her nurturing sweetness.

This made up the Badlands Paranormal Society. Jory’s team—her best friends.

What’s the exit road we’re looking for? Choice asked.

Darcy, their resident all things Britannica and Wikipedia, popped back with the answer. Left on Wheeler Ridge Road. It’s small and paved. Take it south and make a left on Granite Springs Ranch, a gravel road. One-point-two miles in, we’ll hit the gate. They’ll be watching for us and open up.

They said there would be a green mailbox at the Wheeler Ridge entrance, said Jory.

Oh, look, said Darcy, pointing out the window. There’s a sat tower on that big mountain. That means I can ping off the signal as long as I’m in range.

Jory nodded. That’s balls. It means you can use your laptop. That’s our information highway.

You’re telling me, said Darcy, perking up and digging her laptop out of her pack.

Well, we’re getting closer, said Choice.

Jory rolled her eyes.

Choice white-knuckled the steering wheel. Anything that will take an arrow or bullet and not die plays havoc with my mind. I read about this place and there are phantoms or something running loose all over it.

Lander flicked Choice in the back of the head with a finger. Don’t get riled up over something we haven’t seen yet.

"That’s the point I’m trying to make! Choice hit the brakes and slowed down. Okie Dokie. Here’s the green box and Wheeler Ridge Road."

They made a hard-left turn onto a roughly paved blacktop surface. Trees flanked the road on both sides, creating a semi-canopy. The temperature dropped about ten degrees, the air cooling in the deep shadows. Jory noticed a lot of trash on both shoulders and thought it was peculiar. She expected to see a cleaner entrance road to the nearly five-hundred-acre ranch, but then she decided it was windswept debris. She saw wide, expansive meadowland grass between the stout tree trunks. Beyond that lay rocky outcrops and a forest tree line.

Choice slowed to a roll while glancing in the rearview mirror. Jory asked him about the potholes and if his trailer-pulled motorcycle was taking a rough ride.

Forget that, said Lander. Get your knees in the breeze. We’re behind schedule by two hours.

It’s not that, said Choice. What kind of a one-ton van has a mast and a satellite dish on the roof? It turned off with us.

Jory checked her side mirror and looked over her shoulder. All heads turned around.

Maybe it’s a custom designer type vehicle, suggested Darcy. I’ll bet it belongs to the owners. They have quite a bankroll.

Lander playfully knuckled Darcy’s shoulder. Now how do you know that, pumpkin head?

Because they can afford us, said Jory. She looked again at the trailing vehicle. I can’t make out the type of truck. It’s strange because this is a private road. Look at the signs tacked on the trees, private road, private road, private road. Add to that, this is a ranching family. They drive big, open-bed pickups.

Yeah, with crew cabs and dualies, said Lander. Or tractors, even.

I would drive a compact, said Darcy. She looked for approval and didn’t get it.

Choice picked up speed. Let the owners take care of it.

They drove on. After an S-turn they came to a gate made of welded pipes. A galvanized fence topped with razor wire extended in both directions from the security gate. A menagerie of beer cans, empty cigarette packs, crushed Styrofoam containers, plastic water bottles, papers, cardboard, a broken lounge chair, sat next to a crude fire pit, and some pornographic magazines that littered both sides of the entrance like a trash dump. Signs wired to the gate announced, NO TRESPASSING; MY BEST FRIENDS ARE SMITH AND WESSON. There were other signs with skulls and crossbones and a warning that intruders would be fined and jailed.

Choice stopped the van a few yards from the entrance gate and exited the vehicle. He strode up to a talk box and pushed a button. He talked into it, listened and came back to the van’s driver door. He didn’t get in but snapped his fingers twice.

Lander, hand me that forty-one.

Lander dug in his pack, pulled out a forty-one-magnum revolver and handed it over. Jory reared in her seat. "What’s going on, Choice?"

Her boyfriend walked behind the van and tow trailer, out of sight. Jory and the others leapt from their seats and followed. About ten yards away sat the mysterious white van which had followed them up to the gate. Jory looked at the van’s side panel. KWBC—Great Falls—News With A Heart.

Choice fired a shot over his head. The noise cracked like thunder. The van screeched backward and maneuvered around. It burned rubber and headed in the opposite direction. Choice tucked the pistol in his waistband and walked back to the driver’s seat. The others followed. Once they were inside the van, the security gate opened with a swift glide. Choice pulled through. The gate closed behind them with a clank.

I’m not even going to ask, said Jory, looking askance at her boyfriend.

Choice grinned. The owner said it was okay to send them packing. It’s not assault with a deadly weapon when you fire over their head at birds. The country people here do it all the time when you’re not invited on the property. He handed the gun back to Lander.

How do you know all of this so suddenly? Lander asked, the words flowing smoothly over his tongue.

The owner of the ranch said so. He saw them from a telescope on his third story veranda. He made it out as a news van. And he’s got motion detectors everywhere, so he knew we were coming.

Everyone shut up. Jory shook her head and looked out the window. Tall cirrus clouds billowed in a windy sky, and to either side of her, the hills rolled away in a blaze of green. The surroundings were stunning. Up ahead, she could see some buildings shoehorned between a grove of pine trees. One three-story structure stood out, the main ranch house. Other structures further down on both sides of the road looked like outbuildings, barns, storage sheds and fenced pastures. A cabin sat on the promontory of a rocky ridge high up past the main house.

It took two minutes to reach a driveway, one side leading to the main house, the other leading out. They came upon the front of the main ranch house and stopped. Choice left the engine idling.

The owner of the property, Ambrose Tucker, stood on the edge of a wide-posted porch bordered by white latticework. He wore hiking boots and suspendered Levis over a gray T-shirt. A full silver beard puffed out from his chin. White, straight hair was topped off by a Stetson hat. Two large dogs of unknown breed stood on either side of him as though flanking a sentinel. Jory thought she saw him leaning on a large cane. Looking closer, the cane turned out to be a double-barreled shotgun.

Before Choice could shut the engine off, Ambrose waggled his finger and pointed to the side of house. Choice grimaced, drove around to the left side of the house and found a guest parking area. He pulled into a gravel space and butted the front wheels up against a four-by-four piece of wood. An old tow truck with a long boom sat parked next to them.

Lander said, Did you get a load of that? He’s straight out of a Rockway painting.

Rockwell, corrected Darcy.

Hey, he’s full-on country, said Choice. What did you expect?

Jory thought the potbellied man looked rugged and time worn. After interviewing him on the phone three days ago, Ambrose Tucker revealed to her that he was fifty-nine years-old, was on his second wife, who was half his age, and had two house-living daughters in their early thirties from the first wife. He’d sent the wife and daughters off to stay with his brother’s family in Bozeman. He’d stayed on the property out of cussedness and a determination to protect his livestock and small farm animals.

The team exited the van, leaving their surveillance gear and backpacks behind. Jory explained they might be vectored off to some other part of the ranch for housing accommodations. You don’t start dragging your personal belongings into somebody’s house while the owner is standing guard with two dogs and a shotgun.

They stopped at the bottom of the porch stairs. Choice reached over the steps to shake the man’s hand and introduce himself. Jory followed, then the other two.

Magnificently wrought, Darcy gushed, looking past the older man at the woodwork and trimmings of the front façade of the house. Queen Anne or Folk Victorian?

Ambrose looked at the short, somewhat chubby teenager and said, You know your architecture, little red. It’s Folk, three flats high with indoor plumbing.

Lander raised an eyebrow. "Indoor plumbing?"

Jory sucked the breath sharply between her teeth. You heard what he said, Lander. She thought, Now is not the time for smart ass quips, you lanky, greasy fingered idiot. Don’t even start or you’ll be out of here and you can take your van with you.

Everyone hesitated to mount the porch steps until Ambrose said, Don’t stand there with your thumbs up your buttocks. Get on in here. You must be bushed from your haul.

That was the perfect icebreaker. Jory could appreciate a sense of humor, considering the circumstances upon which they’d arrived at Granite Springs Ranch. One of the most famous, haunted properties in the United States, she reminded herself again.

They walked through the front door, down a hallway and into the main living room area. No paintings or photographs adorned the walls. Three long tables formed a triangle in the middle of the living room, and upon them sat stacks of books, newspapers and magazines. A sofa was pulled up to each table. Lounge chairs and end tables filled up the rest of the room, with all of it lit by an ornate chandelier that had at least sixty teardrop bulbs. The dogs had followed them in.

Ambrose stabbed a finger toward a long hallway that led into the interior of the house and said, Apollo, Zeus, on patrol. The dogs ran through the hallway, their nails clicking on the hardwood floor.

Only have two left, said Ambrose. Lost three in four months.

Jory guessed that he meant his dogs. She said she was sorry. The others nodded. Ambrose waved them to one of the sofas and they sat down. However, he remained on his feet at the apex of the table triangle. Darcy broke out a notepad and small pocket recorder.

This doesn’t get printed, said Ambrose, looking at Darcy. I’ve had too much publicity, too many reporters and a hailstorm of trespassers and trashers. Listen carefully to anything I have to say. It might keep you safe and uninjured. Although you’re a sturdy, young-looking bunch and I expect you’ve had your fair share of things like this. He cleared his throat. Y’all are a little younger than I expected.

Their fair share of things. That’s where he was wrong. Jory never gave him their work history. He’d never asked for it. He assumed they knew what the problem might be. From now on they had to keep up the guise or jinx the deal. A glance and nod from Jory to her team members spoke her thoughts on the matter. We’re professionals with a long investigation history. Don’t screw this up.

To cut to the quick of the matter, Ambrose said. It started about six months ago. I moved in here seven months ago. There were these strange noises coming from every part of the property, especially at night. I’m talking growls, machinery noises, whining, murmuring voices in some foreign language, crying, footsteps, creaking and banging noises inside the house and the like. Then the shadows came, the black figures and black animals…

Were they silhouettes? asked Darcy.

Yeah, outlines. They were always half things, animals or humans put together wrong. Whenever you went toward ‘em they would fade real fast and turn into some damn wisp of smoke that smelled like match heads, sulfur. Sometimes the stink of death filled the air. Then the attacks came.

This man was well read. He had some country slang mixed in with some academia, a surprising combo of culture and education.

You say these attacks came and caused multiple deaths, said Jory. It involved some herd animals, other small livestock and pets? Any reports of human fatalities, historic or not?

No human deaths. I started out with over one-hundred head, a mixture of Angus, Holsteins and some Jerseys. I found two of my Angus bulls dead in the pasture on the same day. They were flayed open from ass to jaw. No blood. No footsteps. No signs of a predator. Then eight Holsteins with their backs broken; two Jerseys cut in pieces; fifteen chickens found headless, cut off, not wrung off; two goats with all their legs broken. I had to put ‘em down. Two hunting hounds and a German Sheppard all crushed to death. I lost nine out of twenty pigs; they flat out disappeared from their pen.

At least you got your family out of here in time, said Choice softly.

I got my wife and daughters out of here before any of them got nailed. I’m a pretty pissed off rancher at this point. I want this thing or things dead and hung up for display.

Jory stared at the desk, trying to focus on an object, any object that would cleanse her thoughts. She couldn’t think of anything but death and mutilation. A black cloud of silence struck her friends dumb. Ambrose Tucker had had so many animals wiped out that it was a shock to know that he’d stayed on with the will to fight the evil force or beings responsible.

Jory gulped. She broke the uneasy silence. Do you have an idea or guess as to what caused this? Did you see or hear anything that you could finger as the culprit?

Ambrose smoothed his beard down and took his hat off to wipe his forehead. They say this property has been haunted for about ten generations, even longer. I’ve had the police here three times, plus a bunch of scientists. The cops scratched their heads and filed reports. The science team spooked and left before they finished their investigation.

Any other witnesses? asked Choice.

The neighbors have seen strange lights and orbs in the sky and close to the ground. Everybody seems to think it’s UFOs. You know, with the mutilations and all that. I’ve seen lights and shadows over the property at night, some on the ground, shapes I couldn’t see clearly. Some of the slaughter happened during the day. I’ve never heard much because I wasn’t close enough to the kill spots. I was always on the other side of the property when things went ass-ratchet bad.

Darcy ran her fingers into her temples and closed her eyes. I don’t smoke or drink. But right now I could use a shot of whisky and a strong butt. Sorry, Mr. Tucker. I’ve heard and faced some evil before, but this one really takes the cake, icing and platter. We’re going to have to sort this out piece by piece, incident by incident and jimmy it into a timeline.

Jory said, Actually, we did expect something like this, and we’ve brought all the surveillance equipment we’ll need. You can lodge us wherever you want. We brought sleeping gear, first aid supplies, canned food, helmets, Kevlar armor and an arsenal of weapons. She had to give him a ray of hope, some sunshine in his darkest hour. He had to believe that they could solve this, and they would not quit until they did.

You can take the guest cabin up on the ridge. It’ll give you the best line of sight over the property. You won’t see all the property, but it’s the eagle’s eye over most. This shit’s gone helter-skelter and has to stop. The financial loss is busting me.

Choice nodded. You’re talking prime cattle, sir. Any neighbors lose any stock?

The Filby ranch a mile away lost some herd cows. Others lost dogs. Strange thing is, I’ve got six horses in the north pasture and they haven’t been touched. Not a bent hair on any of them.

Darcy blinked and scribbled in her note pad. Lander looked at Jory and she nodded. He turned Darcy’s tape recorder off. They’d heard enough for now.

Jory stood up, a form of self-dismissal. I want you to know that we’ve come prepared. We’re going to beat this thing. You can serve as our info bank and adviser. We’d better get ourselves moved in and organized. We’re going to need a plan of attack.

Ambrose escorted Jory and friends out the door. He lingered on the porch. There’s an access road that leads to the cabin once you’re out of the driveway and onto the dirt road.

Jory thanked him and walked to the van with the others. She gave Choice a pat on the back. Take it up and unload. I’ll be there in a while.

What are you going to do, stretchy girl? asked Darcy, the sun shining off her cheeks.

I’m going to walk it. Jory didn’t feel like she needed to give them more of an explanation. Team Leader had its privileges. And its risks.

She started off and could feel her teammates’ gaze at the back of her head. She walked the gravel driveway, admiring some of the enormous pine trees. After a few minutes, the van passed her, heading up toward the ridge.

She needed to get a feel for the place in her own way. She fine-tuned her senses into a meditative state, closing her eyes lightly. She only opened them when she needed to align with the access road. She searched deep within her subconscious, digging for that feeling of awareness. She sucked in and exhaled rhythmic breaths. She felt blankness,