The Whistlebrass Storm Watcher

By Jack Keely and Briar Lee Mitchell

Bad weather draws something wicked to the town of Whistlebrass, “a go-to destination for every reader who enjoys fast-paced adventure and spooky mystery” (Q.L. Pearce, author of Ghost Hunters).

Mudslides unleashed by the torrential rains have revealed an archeological oddity, a Viking village on the banks of Lake Wanweird. Young Casey Wilde’s excitement about the discovery soon turns to alarm when a friend shows up with a Viking artifact and wild story about an axe wielding monster.

In the blink of an eye, Casey soon finds himself in the center of an ancient feud—and lives are at stake. With the fate of his friends hanging in the balance, Casey must solve a mystery involving a Viking king, a colonial ghost, a carnival fortune teller, and a calculating cat named Carlisle.

And it looks like another storm is on its way

Don’t miss the next third book in the series: The Whistlebrass Clock People!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Oct 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781682612699

Book preview

A PERMUTED PRESS BOOK

Published at Smashwords

ISBN: 978-1-68261-268-2

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-68261-269-9

The Whistlebrass Storm Watcher:

Whistlebrass Mysteries Book Two

© 2016 by Jack Keely and Briar Lee Mitchell

All Rights Reserved

Cover art and interior illustrations 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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Permuted Press, LLC

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Published in the United States of America

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Introduction

CHAPTER 1: Thunderstruck

CHAPTER 2: Uncovered

CHAPTER 3: Bonegrove

CHAPTER 4: A King Found

CHAPTER 5: Uninvited

CHAPTER 6: Teddy Bear Man

CHAPTER 7: Direct Hit

CHAPTER 8: Murder in the Mansion

CHAPTER 9: Surprise Visitor

CHAPTER 10: Possession

CHAPTER 11: Home Fires

CHAPTER 12: Storm Watching

CHAPTER 13: Puzzle Pieces

CHAPTER 14: Box of Trouble

CHAPTER 15: Stained Glass Storm

CHAPTER 16: Alarm

CHAPTER 17: Rough Road

CHAPTER 18: Twin Clues

CHAPTER 19: Runaway

CHAPTER 20: Connection

CHAPTER 21: A Leaf in the Wind

CHAPTER 22: Dead People

CHAPTER 23: Oh Brother

CHAPTER 24: Flying Bones

CHAPTER 25: Lightning and Pinecones

CHAPTER 26: Nar

CHAPTER 27: The World Dropped Away

CHAPTER 28: Hard Landing

CHAPTER 29: Owl

CHAPTER 30: Battle Ready

CHAPTER 31: Final Flight

Epilogue

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t.jpg he New England states of Vermont, Maine, Rhode Island, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, and Connecticut are justifiably celebrated for autumn leaves, scenic ski trails, lighthouses, and covered bridges. But there is another New England that most tourists never see. At least the lucky ones don’t.

New England became home to many of America’s first settlers almost four hundred years ago. A surprisingly large number of these early colonists have never left their old haunts. Residents frequently tell stories of ghostly figures and disembodied voices. Tales persist of poltergeists, haunted houses, and hypnotic lights in the skies.

In Vermont, the dividing line between our world and the realm of the supernatural is a particularly faint one. In a secluded northeastern corner of the state is a place where the line between the ordinary and the otherworldly barely exists at all.

That place is called Whistlebrass.

It is a small town situated at the confluence of two rivers, the Lamoille and the Quixotic, a cursed spot that native tribes deemed suitable only to bury the dead. In spite of the area’s reputation, an overly confident entrepreneur named Bingham Endicott founded Whistlebrass there in 1790. The geographic isolation of the town drew a hardy group of early residents including rebels, individualists, and eccentrics. Some came in spite of the ominous legends. Some came because of them.

Although Whistlebrass enjoyed a brief period of prosperity, most of Bingham Endicott’s plans for the town failed to materialize. The ill-fated Endicott ended his days in the Windenhaven Lunatic Asylum, an institution he helped establish.

In Whistlebrass, shingled houses with swaybacked roofs, arched doorways, and haphazard brickwork huddle together on narrow snaking streets. These quaint houses have a storybook quality quite unlike the simple saltbox style that typifies much of New England’s architecture. Most Whistlebrass homes feature lucky horseshoes over the doorways, charms dangling in the windows, or protective hex signs painted on the walls. The locals obviously know that storybooks don’t always have happy endings.

Looming mountains surround Whistlebrass, trapping clouds, and plunging the town into perpetual gloom. Blue skies are not unknown, but they are about as rare as hens’ teeth. Usually the skies resemble an old gray army blanket, or they boil with storm clouds.

It is May in Whistlebrass, and snow storms have melted into punishing rain. The watchful residents are about to discover that a torrential downpour has uncovered something very strange on the misty shores of Lake Wanweird. Unfortunately for all concerned, worse storms are on the way.

Whether you’re a newcomer in town or have come back to revisit your own favorite haunts, we bid you welcome to a little slice of misery. . . with maple syrup.

Welcome to Whistlebrass.

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i.jpg t had been no ordinary storm.

Nope. That was for sure. Minutes earlier, the Canadian sky had still held the glow of the setting sun. Now, thunderheads the color of dried blood churned furiously overhead, blotting out the light. Rain fell in sheets. Forked tongues of lightning licked the beach and bay, leaving behind a burnt sour smell like an electrical fire blended with something worse.

Much worse.

This was no time to be out wandering on the beach, no mistake about it. Pike had always possessed a psychic streak, a heightened awareness that had saved his skin more than once. He suddenly felt he was in the presence of something very dangerous.

As he turned to head home, he saw a man, or something very like a man, standing alone and motionless on the sand. Pike squinted into the darkness and wiped the rain from his eyes. The figure was tall, monstrously so, with arms that reached nearly to its knees. Its massive head, thrust forward on a short powerful neck, was aimed in Pike’s direction, watching him. Sizing him up.

For an instant, Pike wondered if it was a bear. Then a flash of lightning lit up the beach.

Nope. Not a bear, Pike thought. A bear doesn’t carry an axe.

Run!

The pouring rain felt like freezing needles against his face. The woods were pitch black. Brush thickets slowed him, fallen tree limbs tripped him, and brambles tore at his clothes. He could hear the creature behind him crashing through the woods. At least it faced the same challenges he had. Pike could hear frustrated grunts and the sound of an axe chopping through the brush.

He fought through a tangle of low hanging boughs and pushed out onto the narrow cliff path. As he broke out onto the trail, his boot skidded on a patch of mud and he spun out of control, slamming down hard. A furry clawed hand ripped through a low hanging canopy of pine boughs and grabbed for his ankle, but the boy was on his feet again, his boots hammering the path.

The trail grew quickly steeper and more treacherous, spiked with rocky outgrowths of the granite spine that formed the cliff and threatened to send him flying again. He kept moving, running faster now, without the branches of the pine forest grabbing at his jacket and tearing into his skin to slow him down.

The treacherous zigzag trail was his only option. The woods were too thick and dark to navigate through, and at least he was familiar with the trail. He knew its twists and turns. He hoped that his pursuer did not. Another shriek. Pike looked back only once, catching a glimpse of a furred hulk backlit by a sudden flash of lightning. Cold sweat washed down his back.

Jeez, what could possibly make a sound like that? It’s too big to be human but it can’t be a bear. They don’t move that way, and bears have paws, not hands.

The trail darted up Switchback Mountain, narrowing as it climbed higher. On the north side, it was bordered by a wall of wind-twisted pine trees that fronted the dense woods. On the south was a sheer drop from the edge of the trail to the ragged rocks and roiling water below.

Below him on the trail, the creature hunched forward, snuffling as its nostrils flared, catching Pike’s scent. It swung the axe, neatly severing a pine branch. Then, with a roar, it charged after him once more.

I can’t get around that thing and go back down the hill, thought Pike. He did his best to clear his head and formulate a plan. He realized that he didn’t have any options. He was trapped.

The only way to go is up.

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The ocean surrounding Nova Scotia, Canada is peppered with odd little islands. Many are just barren rocks, uninhabited stopover spots for seals and seabirds. Others, such as picturesque Fishjaw Island, boast small populations of hardy individuals whose lives and livelihoods are entwined with the sea.

On a frosty November morning, just seven months earlier, Pike had hitchhiked to Canada and spent his last precious dollars on a ferry boat ticket to Fishjaw. He weaved his way through the island’s poky little fishing village until he reached a spot near the beach where a weather-beaten cottage stood perched on stilts. McDERMOTT was carefully lettered on the mailbox in dark red paint. He climbed the uneven steps and paused for a while on the porch before knocking hesitantly on the door.

Hello, young fella.

The door had been opened by a comfortably rumpled, middle aged woman with a smudge of flour on her cheek. If Haddy McDermott was surprised to find a self-conscious fifteen-year-old boy on her porch staring down at his scuffed boots, her warm smile didn’t show it. And who might you be?

I’m your cousin, muttered Pike. His voice was so quiet that the woman had to lean forward to hear him. From Vermont. You came to visit back when—

Eight years ago. Of course, I recognize you now. You were just a little thing then, but I remember them blue eyes and black lashes of yours. I thought at the time that you had eyes like one of them Husky dogs, said Haddy. She held the door open wide and nodded her head towards an invitingly warm hallway. Get yourself inside, boy, before the rest of you turns blue.

A short time later, they were seated at a scarred kitchen table. Haddy sipped a cup of coffee and watched the lanky boy happily wolf down a bowl of fish chowder and a grilled cheese sandwich.

About the only time I ever set foot in Whistlebrass was when I came down for Aunt Kitty’s funeral. You were such a sad little boy. It’s terrible to lose your mama so young, said Haddy. And Aunt Kitty was such a sweet lady.

Pike stared into his empty bowl. I don’t really remember her much.

No, of course you don’t. You were just a tot. After gathering up Pike’s dishes and depositing them in the sink, Haddy rooted around in the refrigerator and returned with a pumpkin pie and two amber glass dessert plates. How’s your old scallywag of a father doing, eh?

He’s. . .um. . .missing.

Missing? Haddy’s brow furrowed as she sliced the pie. What happened?

Well, there was a lot of trouble in town over Halloween weekend. There was a fire and some other stuff. Pike’s voice was guarded. A lot of people vanished.

Some kind of natural disaster?

More like an unnatural disaster, thought Pike. The police are kind of vague about the whole thing.

He was trying not to lie, but there was no way he could tell Haddy everything that happened. She’d never believe that Whistlebrass had been overrun with monsters, and that Pike and his father had been right in the middle of the action. His old man was now among the missing, and no one knew if he was dead or alive. Pike told Haddy as much as he felt he could, but he knew his story sounded pretty disjointed.

Haddy considered the situation as she finished her pie. She had known the disreputable Humphrey Pike, and had always felt that her lovely Aunt Kitty could have done much better. She also knew the police were wise to Humphrey’s shady past, and probably took the view like father, like son.

Haddy sighed. This boy was probably going to be a five alarm headache, but he was just a kid and he had nowhere else to go. Maybe he could start fresh in Fishjaw, without the local authorities always assuming he was up to no good.

Okay, kiddo, she said at last. You might as well stay here, eh? I guess Marlin and I have room for one more.

So Pike dropped anchor. It didn’t take much persuasion to win over easy-going Marlin McDermott. Pike instantly loved the crisp bite of salty sea air. He and Marlin would rise before dawn and demolish stacks of Haddy’s pumpkin pancakes. Then they’d pilot a small fishing boat out through Fishjaw Bay and into the open ocean to fish for cod and halibut. At night, Pike would help Marlin with household chores, or read by the fire while Haddy made chowder or fishcakes.

It was a quiet life, and quiet had been nice.

But quiet was over.

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From his vantage point on the cliff path, Pike could see the lights of cottages scattered along the beach. Haddy and Marlin would be down there, and they’d probably be wondering where he was. Haddy was sure to worry with Pike missing and a night storm rolling in. He had told her, just an hour ago, that he was going for a walk. Just a walk along the shore not far from their home. Innocent enough. Safe.

Yeah, right.

A mile from the McDermott cottage, pines, spruce, and hemlocks crept closer to the water, and the rocky beach began to narrow. Meandering trails led away from the beach and crisscrossed their way up the heavily wooded side of Switchback Mountain. Even in May, the Fishjaw night air was clean and cold. Restless winds in the trees accompanied the whispers and roars of waves against rock and sand.

Pike had walked until he reached the point where the beach ended and Switchback Mountain loomed ahead, a granite cliff slapped by the sea. With his old backpack slung over his shoulder, he scanned the ground for any treasures washed up by the ocean or uncovered by the recent storm.

As he reached down to scoop up a piece of burnished beach glass, moonlight revealed something half buried in the sand, a metal disk etched with some kind of design. He brushed it off, unzipped a pocket in his backpack and tucked the new find inside. A night bird cried overhead and a bell buoy clanged, rocked by the cold Atlantic. The moonlight that lit the path and sparkled on the icy waters of the Atlantic was fading fast. Another storm was looming over the rocky Canadian coast, and, judging by the thunderheads painting out the stars, this one promised to be a substantial blow.

Rain began to pelt the beach and lightning crackled across the dark sky. The air carried a smell, something burnt and unclean. He turned and saw the creature standing like a hulking rain soaked statue. In a heartbeat, he had gone tearing across the sand and into the woods.

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As he raced up the path, he wondered if he had made the right decision. The creature screamed again. If that thing caught him, it was going to be bad, and Pike didn’t want any part of bad right now.

He continued north along the path, which drew closer to the edge of the cliff. He had a plan, but the sheer drop from the cliff to the rocks and sea below gave him second thoughts. Pike swore through gritted teeth.

Get over it, kid, he told himself. There’s no other option.

The path ahead of him widened into a clearing where an enormous flat rock jutted out from the cliff. He raced past a hand-painted wooden sign. It was virtually invisible in the pouring rain, but Pike had read it often enough to know what it said:

WIT’S END VIEWPOINT

Do not go beyond guard rail.

Cliff edge with sheer drop below.

Pike had shaken his head in amazement watching fools inch close to the edge of the cliff, craning their necks for a glimpse of the little grotto in the cliff base forty feet below. By day, breaking waves launched sprays of silver water in the air. Farther out, the Atlantic turned emerald green, its gorgeous color a warning that the depth of the icy water dropped precipitously. He had never thought the view was worth the risk.

Not until now.

As he neared Wit’s End, he called on his last reserves of strength, vaulted over the low log fence, and raced full tilt toward the precipice. With a whoop, he launched himself off the edge of the cliff and out into space.

Pike barely felt the axe blade that sliced through his leather jacket and left a ribbon of red across his back.

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i.jpg n a small park on the outskirts of Whistlebrass, Vermont, sun-light sparkled on the water-dappled branches of a dogwood. The air had the honeyed scent that follows a rainstorm, and, high in the tree, a happy Hermit Thrush voiced his approval of the morning in song. The Thrush was probably feeling a little dazed at having survived the week of stormy weather that had pounded the eastern seaboard, ending in a thunderous finale the night before.

Throughout the night, wind and torrential rain had rattled windows and ripped off shingles from Killington to Smuggler’s Notch. In Lyndonville, an oak that predated the Pilgrims was ripped from the ground. On the Macklehenny estate, halfway between Whistlebrass and St. Johnsbury, the stone lid of the two hundred year old family sarcophagus had been dashed to the ground. Driving rain had quickly turned the final resting place of General Beaumont Macklehenny into an impromptu swimming pool. In Winooski, the river had swallowed up most of a venerable covered bridge, and nearsighted Abner Leach drove his ancient Ford Squire right off the end of it. Winooski constables who fished old man Leach from the churning water issued a citation and a stern warning to wear glasses when driving.

Whistlebrass had its own surprise unearthed by the storm.

In terms of weather, the Whistlebrass locals expected the worst and usually got it. The residents were a hardy bunch. They had to be. The latest storm seemed to pinpoint Whistlebrass for its most furious efforts, knocking down power poles, punching holes through roofs, and churning the poky Quixotic River into swollen and raging rapids.

Whistlebrass had actually weathered the storm fairly well. Other than the faculty at the tiny college, very few residents had personal computers. In fact, many still viewed television as a novelty. Though most had radios, they relied on older methods of weather prediction. Signs and omens including the color of the skies, the appearance of rings around the moon, and sneezing cats told them all they needed to know. The locals had all seen it coming and stayed indoors with their windows barred and flashlights at the ready for the inevitable power outages. Many had opted to spend the night in their cellars, just to be on the safe side. Now they slowly emerged from their homes like dazed chipmunks poking their heads out of their tunnels. Some shielded their eyes as they stepped outside, startled at the novelty of this bright, clear morning.

In the breakfast nook of 13 Darkling Lane, Casey Wilde, a spare thirteen year old boy with auburn hair and intelligent green eyes, sat with his arms crossed. On the other side of the table, his father was busily filling a journal with notes in precise little letters.

So, Dad. Casey sighed. When are we going to get a chance to see it?

His mother was preparing to make breakfast on a camping stove. Power had been knocked out during the storm, and it was anyone’s guess when it might come back on. Fortunately, for a woman who had accompanied her archaeologist husband to a series of far-flung, remote, and primitive locations, a camp stove provided little challenge.

Oliver, said Margo Wilde, as she cracked eggs into a bowl, If you are going to go get a preliminary look this morning, why don’t you take Casey with you? It might be very educational for him. I’d go too, but Pearl and I have a date at the library this morning.

What? Library? What? The