Thorndale: SuperNatural Investigations, #1

By Fox R. R. Haddock

Do 'Super Psychics' exists?  One paranormal investigation team is about to find out—the hard way—when one of their own goes missing.

 

In the aftermath of their most challenging case to date, the crew of SuperNatural Investigations is finding it difficult to return to work.  Some are wondering if the can at all.  With one of their own still missing, Joanne rallies the crew to ferret out what went so horribly wrong.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fox R. R. Haddock
• Release date: Jul 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201485160

Fox R. R. Haddock

Fox R. R. Haddock, a Detroit transplant, lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains with their family.  As a former paranormal investigator and medium, they now create cases for the SuperNatural Investigation Series.  Not to say they have given up the hunt...

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

T wo! Garret enforced with equal fingers held high as he passed the bar to a nearly open table.  He had been to Scotland three or four times before.  All brief.  Janet, Rick, and Derek followed the brute through the crowd.  Janet’s eyes raised to Garret’s back after taking in the polished oak bar, its brass fittings, proud flags, and an overwhelming show of liquors.  The man seemed at ease, in a foggy dream sort of way.  Janet found comfort in that.

Cheers and jokes in blurred dialects smudged the air; kept up the feel of not being home.  Normally the teetotaler of the group, with her second pint, Janet’s smile grew.  She could get used to a place like this!  By the third round, Janet had no idea she had ever crossed the water.

So, Derek ventured, leaning forward on the tabletop.  Trying to keep up with Janet’s pace was making him thirsty.  What do we do tomorrow?

Work, Garret could not filter back into his head.  Or eat, Garret mused.  ‘Smartass’ was in full swing.

I vote for that, Rick smiled, feeling the lager slosh around his brain, glass held even with its ebb.  This was no light beer.

A small crack of the pub’s front door let in some of the night’s much needed cool air.  Elations burst then cascaded like firecrackers, their echoes rang off the ceiling; rattled the cue balls on the felt, making the shooters look up in annoyance only to have jaws turn friendly and open in welcome.  The American crew at the far table could no longer look away.  What could cause such a ruckus?

Snide remarks of prodigal sons and sorry wenches announced the arrival of a young woman with dark hair, a green button-up shirt . . . and leather bracers adoring her wrists.  Derek glanced between the people he knew at the table.  These, he knew, these people held no surprises.  Their new-hire—there was no mistaking Torin, with her dressed down style sporting medieval accessories to match that attitude of undead valor—even six months on, Derek spied Garret’s eyes narrowing on her; seconding the opinion, she kept one.  Her smile was out of place and right at home as she joined one patron then the next in lude comebacks and overdue embraces, handshakes, and, of course, the rising of pints.  Torin had one before the door even closed behind her, turning up the glass for the brew to go down like mother’s milk.

What are you laggards doing here? Torin prodded with surprise.

Ferguson closed the Rusty Horse.  Started renovations, Logan joked, arm around Brian, who had noticed her first.  We had to stumble off the street somewhere!

Aye, Torin laughed, and how you missed the gutter, we’ll never know!

Adam, the leather jacket of the group, clapped his left arm over her shoulders to mimic Logan and Brian’s schoolyard bond.  Pinching Torin’s neck into the crook of his elbow, Adam dipped her back for an ever-risky kiss.  Torin returned after a volley of hoots and howls, a thumb to wipe her lips.

Criminal, Torin chuckled, reddening in the uncertainty of having been openly caught.

Vivacity erupted once more.  Three times, she rose from embraces head and shoulder above the crowd, among more shouts, two pints, and challenges galore.

ANOTHER ROUND, ANOTHER pint—four shots later, Torin took a breath to cheer her own return.  In the process, Torin was handed a trio of darts.  The crew at the table sat unnoticed.  Their pints frozen in various stages of consumption.

This explains so much, Derek and Rick noted in time.

No, Garret disallowed, it doesn’t.

Derek eyed the man with suspicion.  Said nothing.  Janet looked about the table, having forgotten how badly Garret had taken Torin’s departure seven years ago.  To Garret, the difference in years stung more recent than five.  Rick rest his head on his up held wrist, unsure if he could finish to the next pint.

Don’t do it, Derek warned as the brute rose to his feet.  Garret’s chair wobbled, its feet clattering on the tile below as if it could not stand the tension.  Derek waited to see if his friend could stand the precision of walking a straight line.  To his disappointment, Garret was able—all the way to their new-hire.

Are you here with the other blokes? Brian asked, thumb over his shoulder toward the table of four minus one.  Torin followed his aim, as Garret took up the open path.  Yeah, Brian quipped his own remark in a turn toward the Americans.  Garret barred Brian’s foretold line of sight, him.

Torin met Garret’s scrutiny, giving a generous nod.  A smile did not grace her lips.  Care to join the next game was all that rose between them.  Brian, along with Logan, Skyler, Adam, and Haney, watched with questions between themselves.

Garret remained silent.  Torin would have testified he stood mute for ten minutes.  Heat emanated from his face.  Torin felt her own scorch from his accusation.  Returning to the United States had not eased his ire, nor had the past two years of brotherhood.  Moisture wadded regret in her throat as Torin realized her return here was equal to the wound she had created in him the day she left.

Let’s talk outside, she led, minus the darts and her newest pint—all, free of charge.  Garret glanced around, handed his own drink off along their wake.

OUTSIDE, THE NIGHT air bit a salty welcome.  Torin felt it drawing her in a dance up the street to the north.  Her face followed its call, its scent filling her lungs with the feeling of home.  She was back.

So, Garret broke the ice, hands thrust into his pockets, this is where you’d been hiding?

Torin did not entertain his shot at her loyalty.  Instead, she led him along the cobblestone toward the path on the wind.  Her clan was a mere three miles away by field.

Garret followed, anger cooling in the night’s chill to a solid ember—a ready to light coal.  Ten minutes up the road, he dropped it from his grasp with a sigh.

I’ve never seen you smile before, Garret said.  In the sway of a straight road, the comment came out more as an apology.

Few have, Torin agreed.

Then why them? Garret asked.  Why here?

Torin chewed on her answer; found no other way to say it.  It is where I’m home.

The rest of the walk was in silence.

GARRET WATCHED THE scenery change.  Dense residence gave way to a green field in a sharp halt of adjacent streets.  Ahead was a homestead, as stout as it was square, at least from what he could see in the dark.  His breath drew in a healthy measure of night air.  Volume in the action, Garret could not avoid.

This is where I’ve been, Torin led him up the hill and to the walk.  Garret looked at her only in thought, his eyes were on the stone dream now within his reach.  My clan, Torin said, her thumb thrusting the lever of the door.  It opened without complaint.  Voices inside, barely giving Garret time to see a welcoming glow, erupted much like the pub.  Torin ahead of him, Garret closed the door behind him, quadrate jaw set tight at a slant.

You’re home, Jacqueline squealed, her arms racing her body to wrap her cousin-in-law tight.  Torin laughed, returning the hug.  Peter, a man with red hair trimmed to fuzz and a workingman’s sense in a button up shirt, walked into view.  He was wiping off a dish to set at the table.  The scent of meat filled the air, along with a filling Garret’s nose could not understand.  Haggis, the traditional way.

Well, about time you arrived, Peter said.  I was beginning to think you stopped at the pub and found the boys.

Torin smiled, face blushing, as she met him for a pat on the back.  You know fate all too well, she clapped; turned to include her guest.  Peter, I’d like you to meet Garret O’Keefe.  Garret, this is Peter and Jacqueline.  Where’s Shane? Torin asked.

Spotting a few bottles from the seller, Peter said, his accent the finest Garret could imagine—just the discernable side of ‘huh?’.

Look, Peter said again, we’ve got some time before we’re ready.  Why don’t you go answer your man’s questions—save us the time?  Your room’s as you left it, Peter finished, for her to pass.  Sinclair will be here after.

Torin gave a tight nod—the first expression of the night that Garret was familiar with.  She did not look back; did not say a word of recognition.  This was the Torin he knew.  Garret felt a pang in his guts for the previous version he had seen.  Instead, she led the way through a kitchen, a cellar turned pantry, and into a lower section obviously repurposed for a dwelling.  As Torin flicked on a dull light, Garret realized it had been hers.

A simple bed lined the facing wall, a workbench a few feet further down that wall to his left, remnants of amour and leather lay unfinished—nay, cannibalized.  Fittings huddled, stacked neatly in organized disorder.  And dust.  Lots of it.  ‘Three-years-worth,’ Garret realized.

On the end post of her bed rest a war hat, much like the one he knew her to wear, but open.  This one was authentic.  Torin hefted it from its throne, set it back with a weight over her shoulders.  She walked to the right of the bed, along the flanking wall, to an armoire.  Opening it revealed six more war hats, all in various states or redesign.  The last one, bottom right, Torin claimed from the past.  Garret watched as her fingers gently touched over the visor . . . the added faceplate.  She tossed it to Garret with a snap.  He caught it on instinct—and by sheer luck.

It’s identical to the one you wear, Garret dismissed.  Tossed it back.  Torin swept the helm from the air and back into its rightful place.

She locked the cabinet with a this is where I’ve been.  Garret waited for her to speak again, to answer some far-off question he, at this moment, could not form.  She didn’t.  And she didn’t turn around.

Another few moments passed, along with some of the alcohol.  Why here? Garret’s insubstantial effort came out as a question.

I don’t know, Torin admitted.  A breath later, she left him in the space below the pantry.

What do you mean you couldn’t tell him?  Garret heard as he climbed the last of the narrow steps.  Well, tell him tomorrow, Peter finished.  You’re going to need the time.

I don’t see why I have to tell him at all, Torin’s voice stood out.

Oh, her cousin laughed.  And where did you pick up that bullshit?

It’s not bullshit.

Oh, no? Peter wondered.  Neither was our trying to smuggle you out of the country.  You could have just told the embassy you lost your damned passport.  Do you even have one with you this time?

No retort came.  Garret realized he was too close for Torin to speak—or at least speak freely.

Ah, another man strode up.  Garret guessed it was the fabled Shane. Our guest found his way off the rack.  Let’s tie him back down.

Shane, piss off, said Torin taking all kindness out of the room.

I’d like to know what I missed, Garret said.

I hope I haven’t missed dinner, a new voice chimed in from the entryway.  I changed my mind, Sinclair said, and decided not to be late!

You’re right on time, Torin said, letting what tension she could drop from her frame.  Sinclair was met with the same embrace as her cousin-in-law.  Garret’s stomach churned; flopped.  How much more was he going to have to endure?

Does he know? Sinclair whispered in her ear.

No, Torin echoed back.

Ah, Sinclair straightened himself back, conversation kept under his breath, then I won’t spoil the surprise.

Now, now, Jacqueline broke up the merry secret, I’ll not have that kind of hospitality sprayed in this house.

It’s a matter of national honor, Shane quipped; won a smirk from Torin despite the rouge of being caught.  Listen, mate, Shane brought Garret into the conversation.  She knows where you are going tomorrow night, he paused.  Sinclair, here, heads a grove near here and those snakes are going to be there to bail your arse out of the trouble you’re going to find yourselves in.

Garret looked between them, unsure what world he had wandered into.  He looked last to Torin, for some semblance of recognition.

Well, then, Torin clapped her hands.  Let’s eat.

Good, Sinclair led the parade to the table in the next room.  I’m starving.

Torin met Garret’s eyes, for the first time all night.  She was bare.  Unsure.  Her eyes did not meet his long.

Garret’s intoxication fell.  Torin reminded Garret of his prom date: dolled up, ready to go, unable to cancel, or look him in the eye as her hands swung in and out from her waist, bulky wrist corsage miraculous in its ability to stay in place.  All she needed was the lavender, purple, puce dress.  Garret recalled it shone like the pleather of his dash only not as silky—not that he felt it by choice.  The damned dress itched his skin like cacti every time they touched.

SPECIAL DELIVERY FOR a David Dion, Sinclair chided as he walked the half-soused brute up to the hotel’s side.  David’s bottle-iced hair was easy to spot.  Sinclair smiled in the man’s complete confusion.  I believe this is yours, Sinclair finished for use of an afterthought tone.

Torin, we’re going to keep, he said, handing the limp, yet sporting, leaning tower of machismo over to the medium.  But, we’ll have her back to you by lunch, Sinclair strolled off, right index finger in the air to mark a point.  I’m not touching that woman with a ten-foot-pole!  She’s about as housebroken as your rattlesnakes and half as friendly!

Why does she get to sleep in her own bed? Garret slurred.  David smiled, despite his concern for their missing warrior; laughed at the state of their found one.  David then prayed for a breeze, or they’d both reek of ale and carnage for weeks.

"WHAT IS that?" Joanne asked as David entered the dim room, the odor of brined roadkill wafting in behind him before David could close the rooms’ adjoining door.

Our delightful hero, David smirked, not telling her of the local meal the man had deposited beside the commode.  That, Garret would have to rectify in the morning.

That makes four of our team out of commission, Joanne fumed.

Five, David wished he did not have to tell her.  Torin’s unaccounted for.

And you’re not calling the police? Joanne asked.  If there was an ounce of sarcasm, or even levity, in her voice, he could not find it.

She’s from here, David found his bed.  Maybe, just maybe, he was beginning to feel the effects of his own night out.  I think she’s staying with friends.

From the accounts, Joanne groaned, she’s the life of the party.  And not the kind we need.

Yeah, David said, too comfortable atop the bedding to shed his suit.  I heard her palls showed her a fond . . . welcome.

You’re drunk, Joanne spoke with an even tone from her own bed.

So are you.

SUN SHINING, FACES scowling, the team assembled with groans