The Whistlebrass Clock People

By Jack Keely and Briar Lee Mitchell

“For every reader who enjoys fast-paced adventure and spooky mystery . . . The Whistlebrass Clock People will draw you in and keep you turning the pages” (Q.L. Pearce, author of Ghost Hunters).

Hidden within the centuries old Whistlebrass clock tower is a dark secret. When the planets align and the clock strikes twelve, an ancient prophecy will be fulfilled and an evil entity will be unleashed. Can Pike, a teenage psychic, avoid capture by the police and a legion of mechanical creatures long enough to unravel the mystery?

Whistlebrass faces its darkest hour, and the clock is ticking.

Don’t miss the first two books in the series: The Whistlebrass Horror and The Whistlebrass Strom Watcher!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Apr 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781682614600

Book preview

A PERMUTED PRESS BOOK

ISBN: 978-1-68261-459-4

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-68261-460-0

The Whistlebrass Clock People

Whistlebrass Mysteries Book 3

© 2018 by Jack Keely and Briar Lee Mitchell

All Rights Reserved

Cover art by Jack Keely

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1 SPIDERS

Chapter 2 RED EYES

Chapter 3 BENEATH THE STREET

Chapter 4 CRIME WAVE

Chapter 5 RUN

Chapter 6 CRUNCHED

Chapter 7 MUGGING MORTON

Chapter 8 HAND OFF

Chapter 9 HOME AGAIN

Chapter 10 MAKING PLANS

Chapter 11 CONFRONTATION

Chapter 12 MYSTERY

Chapter 13 SWEPT AWAY

Chapter 14 AN OLD FRIEND

Chapter 15 SPLASH

Chapter 16 DISAPPEARING STRANGERS

Chapter 17 EVIDENCE

Chapter 18 TEAMING UP

Chapter 19 DARKNESS

Chapter 20 UNDERGROUND

Chapter 21 LIKE CLOCKWORK

Chapter 22 FALLS

Chapter 23 LIGHT

Chapter 24 FOUND

Chapter 25 WYNDANE

Chapter 26 SHE SPEAKS

Chapter 27 CHAOS 

Chapter 28 ON THE EDGE

Chapter 29 SIZZLE

Epilogue

About the Authors

THE WHISTLE BRASS CLOCK PEOPLEE

Vermonters smile as they ski and skate through bone -c hilling winters which can extend from October to April. They slog through the spring mud season with a song in their hearts. This is due in part to the natural beauty of the Green Mountain State, which is ready for its close -u p any time of year. But there is another reason as well. After the staunchest snowman has melted away and the last tulip has bloomed, summer glides in like an old friend who has come for a v isit.

Summer in Vermont means tranquil afternoons of boating and biking. It means stopping at a farm stand on a country road to pick up homegrown tomatoes, cucumbers, and corn on the cob for a lakeside picnic. It means long evenings lit by flickering fireflies and cooled by jasmine scented breezes. Summer in Vermont is golden.

That is, unless you happen to spend it in Whistlebrass.

In that isolated and misbegotten burg, the hazy summer skies are usually bleached bone white or charcoal dark with storm clouds. Although Whistlebrass temperatures rarely sizzle, the heavy humidity can turn a stroll down Simoleon Street into a steam bath.

After being housebound by winter snows and spring storms, cabin-fever drives many Whistlebrass locals outside. The warm weather is a wakeup call for all the town residents, both seen and unseen.

Folks hungry for food and conversation crowd the counter of the Chow Hound Diner ordering blue cornbread and vinegar pie. Notices begin to appear in the Whistlebrass Whisperer announcing outdoor activities such as ice cream socials and the annual competition for prettiest pig. Those who go hiking in the jagged mountains that circle the town rarely go alone. The creatures that live in the cliffs and crags are wide awake and hoping to get fattened up before the cold weather returns. There is also more scratching and scurrying inside the walls of the old houses. Wails drift from attics and inhuman eyes glow in the dark.

This summer, the town is buzzing with excitement. The marvelous old tower clock in the town square is being restored and Whistlebrass is busily preparing for a celebration. Unfortunately, something evil is hidden by the banners and balloons. A peculiar crime wave is plaguing the town. An odd and intimidating group of tourists has arrived, and there seem to be a lot more spider webs than usual.

Welcome to Whistlebrass. We hope you enjoy your visit. Just don’t look too closely into the shadows or past the point on the cobblestone streets where the streetlamps’ glow falls short. You don’t really want to see what might be lurking in the shadows.

Summer in Whistlebrass can be murder.

CHAPTER 1

Spiders

Two outsized eyes in the center of its face shimmered like glass beads. Six smaller ones ringed its furry head. At night, the eight eyes worked together allowing it to easily pinpoint its prey. In the hazy afternoon light, its vision was blurry, but it could detect mo tion.

Pike took a few steps to the right. It followed him, mimicking his movements with a sideways scuttle. Pike stepped forward and tapped the smudged glass window of the conservatory with his index fingers.

Hey, beautiful, said Pike. Whatcha doin’ in there.

The kitten-sized spider lifted its two front legs and tapped the glass from the other side.

Pike let out a soft whistle. Cool.

He leaned in close, peering through the smudged window of the conservatory. Pushed up against the glass was a long table lined with wire cages, beakers, and bottles swathed in dusty spiderwebs. The spider standing in the center of the table was covered with wiry black hair and a series of cobalt blue stripes ran diagonally down its back in an inverted V formation.

Pike rested his chin against the rusty iron that framed the window pane. The elaborate domed conservatory blossomed like an enormous wrought-iron flower off the west wing of the old Greenwebbe Mansion. The house and, in fact, the entire Greenwebbe Estate had definitely seen better days. The once manicured grounds were a riot of tangled brush and twisted trees. A roadmap of cracks, evidence from decades of deferred maintenance and harsh New England winters, cut through the masonry of the still imposing façade of the mansion.

The conservatory was filled with work tables, aquariums, terrariums, and wire cages of all sizes. Spider webs hung from the ceiling filtering the afternoon sun and making the interior resemble a soft-focus photograph. Shadows shifted and the spider turned away from the window. A tiny old lady weaved her way between the tables. Her silver hair was swept up into a neat French twist. She wore a stained bib apron over khaki trousers and a slightly threadbare turtleneck sweater.

There you are, Frances. I wondered where you were.

The old lady scooped the spider up and held it against her cheek, smiling as it tapped her face with a furry foreleg. Pike rapped gently against the glass. The woman stepped back quickly, surprised by the dark silhouette appearing at her window.

It’s just me, Miss G. It’s Pike.

Arachne Greenwebbe waved her free hand, gesturing for him to come inside. He smiled as he circled the conservatory, striding along the cracked flagstone walkway.

Good old Miss G, he thought. I startle her, but that giant spider doesn’t faze her at all.

Pike moved quickly but carefully. The walk was cracked and uneven. Some of the flagstones popped up at odd angles, pushed out of alignment by tree roots. Ceramic pots and cement planters partially hidden by weeds were stacked along the wall of the conservatory in the same spots where they had been discarded decades earlier by Miss Greenwebbe’s eccentric father, Garnet Greenwebbe. The conservatory had once held a famous collection of orchids, lilies, and lotus flowers. Garnet Greenwebbe had disposed of the exotic plants and converted the conservatory into a hatchery for exotic spiders.

An inherited fortune had allowed him to pursue his lifelong fascination, and he quickly became America’s premier breeder of rare predatory arachnids. He poured all of his energy and virtually his entire fortune into the care and breeding of an expanding variety of pedigreed spiders. Greenwebbe’s dreams of popularizing spiders as family pets were shattered by a disastrous and highly publicized incident involving Norwegian Humpbacks (an affectionate but unfortunately venomous breed). A series of lawsuits further eroded the family fortune and Greenwebbe died a broken man.

Pike, called Miss Greenwebbe. Are you there?

Yup. Comin’. I see Frances got loose again, said Pike.

Yes, she did. Such a naughty girl, said Miss Greenwebbe indulgently. She opened the door of a flamboyant wire birdcage and gently placed the striped spider inside.

She’s such a clever girl. She seems to be able to pick any lock I put on her cage. I can’t have her running all over town getting into mischief. Norwegian Humpbacks are highly intelligent spiders.

And venomous, added Pike.

Well, no one’s perfect, dear. She’s really very sweet, and her venom is unlikely to be fatal. Most of the time, anyway.

She checked the new lock on Frances’s cage and turned her full attention to Pike.

Are you sure you’re comfortable in that old summer house? You know that you are more than welcome to stay in the south wing. This house has twenty-two rooms and I only use a few of them. I’m sure you’d be more comfortable.

Nope. Thanks, Miss G, but I like the summer house just fine.

The summer house was a tiny rustic cottage on the grounds of the Greenwebbe Estate. It had only been intended as a shady spot to spend summer afternoons, but it suited Pike’s restless nature. It provided him with a place to stay without compromising his need for freedom.

Here, I brought this for you. Pike pulled a small roll of crumpled bills out of his jeans pocket.

What? No, don’t be silly. You are more than welcome to stay here, said Miss Greenwebbe. Neither of us has much in the way of family. We are like two orphans in the storm who can assist each other. The help you provide around here is more than sufficient exchange for your room and board. You definitely earn your keep.

Pike gave her a knowing look and placed the money on the table next to Frances’s cage, smoothing out the bills a bit. He had been able to chase up some work doing odd jobs around town and felt compelled to put some money in the pot even though they had the same discussion every time he did so.

Yeah, okay, but, you need a few things around here, he said. And the extra money will help with that.

The proud old lady couldn’t argue with him there, but she left the money on the table. She wouldn’t pick it up until after they were done here. She quickly informed Pike of the tasks she hoped to complete before dinnertime. Many of her spiders were free rangers, not living in cages or the arachnid cradles as she often called them. She had dozens of glass fish tanks, filled with sand or dense foliage and screen tops that housed some of her spider clan. Like Frances the Norwegian Humpback, many of the larger breeds lived in bird or hamster cages.

Here you go, kids, said Pike. He slid a large red apple into a chute attached to a cage labeled Trembling Apple Carvers. A nice little treat for you.

Inside the cage, a cigar box with one side removed had been placed to provide a hiding place for the sensitive spiders. Pike focused his attention on the box, sensing the creatures clustered inside it. He had always had a paranormal affinity for animals, a psychic streak that allowed him to sense their moods. Spending time on the Greenwebbe Estate had provided him with his first opportunity to be surrounded by such a dense population of spiders. He was surprised to find that he could form a bond with creatures whose brains were no bigger than poppy seeds.

Come on out, he whispered. You’re safe here.

Long slender legs reached out from the cigar box. One by one, five spiders with outsized jaws emerged and minced along on long slender legs, looking like walnuts supported on knitting needles. They circled the apple, trembling as they tapped it with delicate little feet. Acting as one, the spiders began to rhythmically chew the surface of the apple, covering it with elaborate grooves and swirls.

Pike left the trembling eight-legged artists carving their apple. Hundreds of other spiders were awaiting their breakfast. There were translucent cellophane tarantulas, iridescent spotted toppers, and bright orange Newbrook spinners. There were the romantically named Juliet widows who spent happy months cuddling with their mates before devouring them. The Soaring Orb Spiders had the unique ability to weave parachutes of spider silk and drift for miles across the Australian outback. He checked off each breed of spider as he moved through his tasks. He had just completed feeding an enormous Australian saltwater spider when Miss Greenwebbe called his name.

Look up, Pike, she said. "The dappled tappers are putting on a show.

Suspended from the ceiling was an elaborate wrought-iron grid. At regular intervals, lights carefully calibrated for brightness and warmth glowed softly. Standing in a row on the grid directly over Pike’s head were ten long-legged brown spiders dappled with white spots. The entire row tilted to the right. One by one, they raised and lowered their feet and shifted to the left, turned in a circle, and then shifted to the right. Miss Greenwebbe clutched her pearl necklace and stared up at the hideous dancing spiders with a radiant smile on her face.

Amazing, aren’t they? Dappled tappers communicate entirely by movement. They can create synchronized routines as complex as any military troop or professional dance team. Just beautiful.

Pretty cool, Pike admitted. Miss G, you let those guys and lots of other breeds just roam around and go wherever they want. Don’t they ever fight with each other?

Miss Greenwebbe shook her head.

No, not very often. Most of them are placid creatures, although it looks like poor old Antoinette is a bit agitated.

Miss Greenwebbe peered into an aquarium labelled Brazilian Howler. Inside the aquarium, an enormous spider covered with silky orange fur paced back and forth uttering long low whistling moans.

Poor old thing, said Miss Greenwebbe. Antoinette does get a little cranky when the moon is full.

How old is she? asked Pike.

Let’s see. She’ll be twenty-three in a few weeks. We should have a little birthday party for her. Antoinette is quite elderly for a spider although some tarantulas can live for nearly thirty years. Perhaps a little music would calm her down a bit. Antoinette does love a bossa nova tune.

The old lady left the conservatory, being careful not to allow any of the spiders to escape into the main house. A few moments later, the sultry strains of Girl From Ipanema drifted into the conservatory. The music was soft and somewhat muffled due to the spider webs that encased the speakers attached to the wrought-iron grid suspended from the ceiling.

Miss Greenwebbe returned carrying two cups of Scottish breakfast tea. She was pleased to have introduced Pike to the world of tea. She agreed with the British, who felt that a good cup of tea could soothe a troubled soul.

And Heaven knows that boy has had more than his share of troubles, she thought. Half the people in this town think he’s some kind of hoodlum.

She remembered a couple of comments about Pike made by members of the Whistlebrass Garden Society. Fanny Macintyre had warned her to lock up her silver and jewelry if she was going to allow the boy in her house. Arachne Greenwebbe had been plagued by plenty of barbed comments concerning her love of spiders and didn’t hesitate to put busybodies like Fanny in their place.

I suppose I shouldn’t have called Fanny an old bat, she thought, smiling wickedly at the memory of Mrs. Macintyre’s red face. But the idea of saying that boy was likely to steal my–

She stopped in her tracks and studied Pike. He was staring up at the dappled tappers with his head cocked to one side and one eye partially closed. Arachne Greenwebbe was aware of Pike’s profound affinity for animals and his uncanny ability to communicate with them.

Okay. Yeah, said Pike. Let me see what I can find.

On a ramshackle worktable was a collection of pliers, screwdrivers, boxes of nails, and other miscellaneous hardware. Pike withdrew an old wooden yardstick from the pile.

This should work, he said.

He held the yardstick over his head, resting the tip on the suspended iron lighting grid. One by one, in perfect rhythm, the dappled tappers walked onto it. Holding the yardstick steady, he walked to the center of the conservatory where a softly glowing lamp fashioned into a globe of red and amber stained glass hung suspended from the ceiling. He raised the yardstick as high as he could and the spotted brown spiders hopped onto the glowing glass ball. They spread out forming a ring around the lamp, and then climbed to the top, meeting in a tight little group. Moving in a slow spiral, they began to circle the lamp in a precise formation, apparently very happy to be bathed in the warm colored light.

I don’t know which is more astonishing, said Miss Greenwebbe, handing Pike a cup of tea. Is it that spiders are performing a dance routine on the ceiling light, or that you were aware that they wanted to be up there? I’ve seen how you behave around cats, dogs, and a variety of other animals. It’s as though you can communicate with them on some psychic level.

I dunno, muttered Pike with a shrug.

He could never really explain his bond with animals or the mix of images and sounds that they projected to him. Somehow he was able to decipher the impulses in his mind. He possessed a heightened sense of the emotions and auras of human beings as well, and the ability to sense danger had saved his neck more than once.

I mean, Miss G, it’s not like I can read minds or anything, said Pike. I just know animals and kind of understand them. I mean, you know, lots of people do.

Pike stared into his teacup, avoiding eye contact with Miss Greenwebbe. Talking about his gift, as she sometimes called it, made him uncomfortable, mostly because he didn’t understand it himself and it just felt so incredibly personal when another living creature shared its thoughts and feelings with him. Thankfully, he could sense she was going to let it drop.

I had a rather busy morning at the library, she said, changing the subject.

Lotta book lovers today needing your help?

Yes, of course, said Miss Greenwebbe with a smile. Of course, Pike was just teasing her. Libraries do tend to draw that sort of crowd. After I finished up with my work, I walked over to the town square for lunch and watched the work progressing on the clock.

Clock?

The enormous one in the town square, said the old lady. Near the little park in the center of town.

That weird old thing! Wait, what…it still runs? Or, what did you say? Someone was fixing it?

Miss Greenwebbe nodded.

I will admit, it has not run terribly well for the past few years, but it has always kept time. I used to love watching it strike the hour. Doors would open and little mechanical people would come out and dance around in front of the clock face, she said, twirling her hand in the air, mimicking the figurines. Our New England winters have been tough on the old clock. They really need to cover it in the snowier months. The little figurines no longer perform as they should. They haven’t for years

Pikes