Totem of Terror

By Robert Herold

The Eidola Project, a team of 19th Century ghost hunters, have been tasked with trying to stop a deadly shapeshifting demon attacking the native people of La Push, on the Washington Coast. The team brings their own demons with them, in the form of drug addiction, a werewolf's curse, and being in mourning from the death of a loved one. Can they rise to this new challenge, or will they face they same grisly end as the shapeshifter's other victims?

• Language: Unknown
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Jun 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781509241491

Robert Herold

The supernatural always had the allure of forbidden fruit, ever since my mother refused to allow me to watch creature features on late night TV as a boy. She caved-in. (Well, not literally.) As a child, fresh snow provided me the opportunity to walk out onto neighbors' lawns halfway and make paw prints with my fingers as far as I could stretch. I would retrace the paw and boot prints, then fetch the neighbor kids and point out that someone turned into a werewolf on their front lawn. (They were skeptical.) I have pursued many interests over the years, but the supernatural always called to me. You could say that I was haunted. Finally, following the siren’s call, I wrote THE EIDOLA PROJECT, based on a germ of an idea I had as a teenager. Ultimately, I hope my book gives you the creeps, and I mean that in the best way possible!

Book preview

Chapter One

Washington Coast – September 3rd, 1885

Acrid smoke lay thick in the crowded cedar longhouse, stinging eyes and causing people to cough, but they dared not stop their drumming and chanting. It was near midnight on the second night, but they could not stop, or there would be no chance for the return of Kitichid and the others. Punctuating the coughs and the tribal litany were periodic wails from Taka, the missing girl’s mother. Her voice, strained and hoarse from two days of crying, sounded as though it would soon be gone.

The entire tribe left their homes, all built within the last few years and constructed in the white man’s style, for this, their traditional meeting place. Many had been drumming and chanting from the start. When people became too tired, others took their place, tended the fire, or fed the children, who remained unusually quiet. Outside, rain and wind beat against the large one-room structure.

The storm worsened as the second night wore on. The weather pounded against the longhouse with such force, the log beams groaned and cracked.

Kitichid! wailed Taka, her strained voice rising above the chanting, the drums, and the storm. Come to me!

The storm abruptly stopped.

The tribe silenced their voices and drums. An eerie quiet hung over them, as though the world had ceased to exist outside the confines of the longhouse. The massive cedar door slid open on its own—a door that typically took several men to move.

In the entryway stood the sopping wet little girl.

****

Two days earlier, Taka and Kitichid had walked along the banks of the Quileute River, following it inland from where it ran into the ocean near their village. They had been gathering blackberries for much of the morning.

There’s not as many as last time, Kitichid said as she reached for a berry and then another before placing them in her woven cedar bark basket.

Taka stared at her seven-year-old daughter and smiled. The girl’s long black hair framed an unblemished face, and her large doe eyes shone with kindness and good humor. She wore a blue gingham dress Taka made for her.

You’re right. Taka nodded. The season is ending. She reached far into the brambles, beyond her daughter’s arm length, and snagged three plump berries. We will gather as many as we can in the days before the frost arrives. We’ll smash the berries and spread out the paste to dry so that we can enjoy them all winter and spring. Do you remember doing this last year?

I love berry leather, but too much makes my tummy… Kitichid’s voice trailed off as she became distracted by salmon vaulting over the churning white rapids of the river.

No weirs or spears hindered the creatures’ progress. The salmon spirits had already blessed the tribe with more than enough fish for the winter. Many in the tribe had also worked in the hop fields this year for the white men. They had returned with money to buy supplies from the general store. It should be an easy winter, thought Taka, whatever the weather.

A potlatch would soon occur to honor the spirits’ generosity, despite the disapproval of such events by both the missionary teachers and the new Indian agent. The potlatch was part of her tribe’s collective soul, and they resisted efforts to stop holding them. Still, Taka knew full well that the arrival of white men caused tremendous change for her people.

Taka remembered them all living in longhouses and wearing woven cedar bark clothing when she was a girl. Then the great sicknesses came, shrinking the village to a fraction of its former size. Both Taka and her husband, Saliookcha, were orphans. Their parents had succumbed to the burning-high fevers and painful red blisters that white men called smallpox.

There was nothing small about it. Taka recalled most of the tribe going out into the surf, seeking relief from the burning fevers, then the screams as the saltwater hit their open sores. Many died there, and their bodies littered the shore. Taka and her husband were struck by the disease too, but they somehow managed to survive. The sickness left them both with scarred faces, and it was why Taka so delighted in the beauty of her child.

During the plague, the tribe turned to the missionary’s angry god, who seemed to spare some. The remaining people, grateful to be alive, adopted many of the white men’s ways, including their housing—even their style of dress. Now, only the largest two longhouses remained. There used to be sleeping platforms for each family lining the interior of the buildings, with higher platforms for storing items. These had been removed from the largest longhouse, which was now used exclusively for ceremonies and important events. They used the smaller longhouse for storage. People kept only the most important masks and prayer blankets in individual homes. The other items were set aside to gather dust or sold to white people as curios.

Taka and Kitichid worked their way up the river and then cut inland in search of more berries. They stopped for a lunch of dried salmon, fresh blackberries, and water, then continued foraging. After the better part of the day, Taka heard Kitichid cry out in alarm. Taka dropped her basket and ran in the direction of her daughter’s voice.

What’s wrong?

Come quick! Kitichid called.

Taka found the girl at the edge of a small glade, pointing. In the center of the clearing, a swarm of insects hovered over the putrefying carcass of a huge sockeye salmon. The two crept closer.

Winged insects and maggots swam over and through the rotting flesh, giving the creature a new sense of life. The whole underside of the fish was torn open, providing free access to the squirming vermin, but no other animals had eaten here.

The woman saw that the river was over one hundred paces away. Who would do this? A bear would not waste a catch. It showed disrespect to take a life without using it. And to disregard the bones was inconceivable. The Quileutes always returned the bones from fish they caught. Failure to do so could offend the salmon spirits.

Stay here, Kitichid. I will return the salmon to the river.

I want to come, said Kitichid, stamping her foot in frustration.

No. Stay back. If the salmon’s spirit is angry, I don’t want it to turn on you. I’ll return shortly, and then we’ll go home.

Taka broke a small branch off a salal bush and used it to flail the rotting creature, driving off most of the insects. Steeling herself for the task ahead, Taka bent down and lifted the wormy rank-smelling carcass in her arms. She brought it to the river’s edge and walked out until the water reached her knees. Taka said a prayer, begging for the creature’s forgiveness, and gently set it free. The dead fish turned over a few times in the swiftly flowing water and then disappeared.

The entire skeleton needed to be returned to the water for the bones to travel to the salmon house beneath the sea. There, the fish would have its life restored, allowing it to return the following year. An offended spirit could convince the other salmon to avoid the river where the offense took place, which would be disastrous for the village.

Despite adopting many ways of the white men, the tribe did not become the farmers that missionaries and previous Indian agents wished them to be. The soil near the village was not good for farming. Instead, many hired themselves out to white farmers elsewhere in the territory to pick hops. They also hunted seal and game animals and gathered edible plants and berries. They mainly relied on salmon, as they always had, drying the fillets to see them through the year.

Taka washed her hands and waded back to the riverbank. On the way, she noticed the long shadows stretching out over the churning water. It would soon be dark. Through the swath the river cut through the trees, she saw the sun disappearing into a boiling mass of dark gray clouds. Taka retraced her steps at a run.

Kitichid! she called.

Taka returned to the glade. She found her daughter’s basket overturned on the ground. Taka shouted for her daughter as she scooped up the fallen berries and pricked her finger on a thorn from a low-running blackberry vine. She cried in pain and drew out the thorn. Kitichid?

Silence.

Taka lifted Kitichid’s basket in one hand and her own in the other. She sent a worried glance around and called again at the top of her lungs.

No answer.

Taka dropped both baskets, sending the hard-won berries rolling back through the underbrush.

Kitichid!

Taka ran from the meadow and into the murky depths of the surrounding forest, calling her daughter’s name. Low branches tore at her clothing and skin. Still she ran, sobbing, calling in desperation. She soon realized her crying might cover a faint call for help and forced herself to stop.

Perhaps something frightened Kitichid and she ran back to the village, Taka reasoned. A cougar? A bear? No, she had seen no scat or pawprints, and no blood from an attack.

Aside from the distant sound from the river rapids, a smothering silence hung over the forest. The usual sounds of birds, insects, and other creatures were absent. She was abandoned by all. The low clouds and late hour soon made the darkness complete. Drizzle fell from the sky.

Using the river’s sound as her only guide, Taka found her way through the dark to the riverbank. She plunged her hand into the water, checking the direction of its flow, and moved downriver toward the village. Eventually, Saliookcha and the rest of a search party—all carrying lanterns—found her. Her husband wrapped her in his arms and pressed his face to hers. When it became dark, we started searching for you.

She had teased him that morning for cutting his hair short in the white man’s fashion. He appeared crestfallen, and she laughed even more. How thoughtless and cruel. She now wished only to return to that morning, to hold Kitichid in her arms while Saliookcha held them both in his.

Where is Kitichid? he asked.

Sh-she did not return?

Saliookcha held her back at arm’s length and gave her a little shake. No.

Taka let out a mournful wail, surrendering to grief. Salty tears ran into her gaping mouth. Duskiya has our daughter!

Duskiya was the mythical monster Quilieute mothers sometimes used to frighten children into behaving. A kelp-haired child-snatcher that would cook the children it stole and eat them.

Tell me what happened, Saliookcha said in a stern voice.

Taka relayed the events, despite the tears and sobs. After hearing this, Saliookcha told the search party he would like to take Taka back to the village. The others agreed to continue the search. Instead of taking her home, her husband brought her to the tribe’s main longhouse, where everyone else had gathered.

Saliookcha knocked on the massive cedar door, and men within drew it aside. They stepped into the main longhouse then stopped. Doc Bayak came up and studied Taka. He chanted a prayer as he lightly patted each shoulder with a green cutting from the end of a cedar branch. The wizened-faced shaman insisted everyone call him by the nickname given him by the whites because he was a medicine man. Despite his new name and the shirt and trousers he wore, he was also draped in a traditional yellow blanket with an image of a wolf, their spirit animal, rendered in pieces of mussel shells.

Their chief also approached. He asked Taka to recount what happened. The old shaman and the chief remained impassive throughout the tale; then, the two withdrew to a corner of the room and conferred in private. A few minutes later, they had everyone—all one hundred and eighty-six adults, plus their children— fetch their drums and rattles and sit around the central fire. Taka and Saliookcha joined the others. The chief and Doc Bayak entered the circle and stood by the fire. The chief called for everyone to be quiet.

The old shaman spoke. Some of you think Duskiya has stolen Kitichid, but you are wrong. I’ve had a vision of a much more powerful evil force. It seeks to destroy all of us. For what reason, I know not, but I do know we must implore our guardian spirit to offer its protection. I fear for the men who search for Kitichid. I fear for the girl herself.

Wailing erupted from the women, most loudly from Taka.

Doc Bayak continued. Only a few of us are left after the great sickness. If this evil being has its way, we will soon be no more.

The shaman went to a corner of the room and returned with a large wooden mask shaped like a stylized wolf’s head. When he placed it over his own head, the mask opened its hinged jaws to reveal Doc Bayak’s face. Upon his cue, drums and rattles throughout the lodge beat out rhythmic patterns. The old shaman danced and sang out a prayer. The tribe shouted a response each time he paused.

The moment the prayers began, a storm struck with savage intensity. The sky exploded in thunderous fulmination, and rain beat down upon the lodge. The wind, failing to collapse the structure, nevertheless made the cedar longhouse as unpleasant as possible. Smoke from the fire could not escape through the hole in the roof, and the huge room became hazy and thick with smoke. People coughed, but no one left.

Somehow, the old shaman drew on hidden reserves of strength to continue his dance throughout the night. Near dawn, a deafening crash upon the door shook the entire building. People stopped their drumming and chanting, making the pounding rain that much more noticeable.

Three large men rose and went to the door but then just stood there, unwilling to open it until the chief told the men to slide back the heavy door. The chief stepped outside. He returned a moment later, carrying the body of a raven. The black bird’s neck was broken.

I found it in the mud outside the door, he said.

Doc Bayak removed his mask and set it on the ground. Bayak meant raven. This was a message to me, he realized.

The Shaman took the dead bird, examined it, and then threw it on the fire. The creature’s body exploded, disappearing with a flash. People gasped and backed away. Doc Bayak raised his right hand and spoke with authority. Do not despair. It was a trick to frighten and divide us.

Hearing this, the tribe returned to their places and renewed their efforts. Tired, the old shaman sat on a log, but he continued to lead the chanting for much of the day.

The chief positioned himself next to the closed door. The leader held a black argillite club his grandfather received many years ago at a Haida potlatch. The carved stone depicted a wolf, and the club was considered sacred by the tribe.

Despite the old shaman’s words, Taka sunk into despair. Her wails punctuated the chants but became more infrequent as exhaustion took hold and she drifted in and out of sleep. Finally, she got up and huddled in a corner by herself, cocooned in a blanket.

Halfway through the second night, Taka awoke to see the old shaman rise to his feet and lift his arms in prayer. He sang with a loud voice, belying his exhaustion.

In response, the storm became more intense. Thunderous pounding smashed against the building. The reverberations knocked cedar mats from the walls and caused the massive structure to sway. The solid tree trunk beams above their heads creaked from the force.

Kitichid! cried Taka in a voice made rough from so much wailing. Come to me!

The pounding against the building and the blowing wind and the rain suddenly ceased. The tribe stopped the chants and drumming. The silence that followed seemed just as ominous.

As they watched, the heavy longhouse door slid back on its own and in the entryway stood the sopping-wet little girl. Black hair lay plastered to her head and shoulders. Her blue gingham dress was filthy, torn, and soaked with rainwater. Dirty rivulets ran down her grimy face and her bare, mud-spattered legs. The tribe stared in silence, transfixed.

The girl’s eyes fixed on Doc Bayak, and Kitichid glided toward the old shaman, her feet skimming above the packed earth floor. Dazed, as though under a spell, the shaman took a step toward her.

Kitichid! Taka shouted with joy and ran to her daughter. The sound of Taka’s voice shattered the spell.

Saliookcha, beaming with happiness, followed on the heels of his wife. Taka repeated her daughter’s name over and over as she dropped to her knees and showered her daughter with kisses, unmindful of the wet muck. Saliookcha wrapped his arms around the two of them and closed his eyes, still smiling.

Mother! Kitichid’s voice sounded almost seductive. The girl put her arms around her mother’s head in a childish embrace and seemed to whisper in her ear. Puzzlement and pain showed on Taka’s face.

The old shaman ran up and grabbed the girl’s hair, wrenching her head back. A loud popping sound filled the room as he broke the seal around Taka’s ear. Saliookcha let go of his wife and child in shock as a fountain of blood and gray matter spewed from his wife’s ear. Taka’s body collapsed inward upon itself like a withered husk as it fell to the ground.

The old shaman let go of the girl just as the chief raced toward them and brought the argillite club down upon the child’s head. The blow brought a searing flash of white light, and Kitichid disappeared. A puff of foul-smelling green mist remained in the girl’s place. It hung in the air for a moment then swept outside, accompanied by loud spectral laughter.

Chapter Two

Cambridge, Massachusetts. September 23rd, 1885

Annabelle Douglas leaned over Nigel Pickford as he lay stretched out next to her with only a thin sheet draped over his naked body. Six weeks ago, the dark-haired Civil War veteran and former derelict had joined their paranormal research group, the Eidola Project. Annabelle pulled the sheet down from his muscular chest and appraised him for a moment.

In remarkably good shape, given what he’s been through.

A strand of her brunette hair came loose and fell across her face. Annabelle pushed the hair behind her ear, grabbed a broad leather strap, and placed it over Nigel’s bare chest and biceps. Nigel grinned at her from where he lay on a white enameled metal table. She knew the expression—it often preceded something lewd. Annabelle braced herself, trying to maintain her usual no-nonsense demeanor.

I understand some people enjoy this sort of thing, he said in a husky voice only Annabelle