Terror in the Shadows

  Terror in the Shadows

  A Pierce Mostyn Paranormal Investigation

  CW Hawes

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Join the Team!

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  Get “The Feeder” for Free!

  Did You Enjoy Terror in the Shadows?

  Van Dyne’s Vampires

  About the Author

  Also by CW Hawes

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

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  1

  The countryside was beautiful. Lushly green. Hilly. The black, unmarked SUV made its way westward along I-68, crossing into West Virginia just after nine on a sunny morning in July.

  Special Agent in Charge Pierce Mostyn was sitting in the second row of seats with Doctor Jeffrey Mansfield, a specialist in genetically caused physical deformities.

  In the front, driving, was Special Agent DC Jones. Sitting next to Jones was photographer Willie Lee Baker, who with camera at the ready, was snapping pictures of the countryside.

  In the third row of seats Doctor Dotty Kemper, a forensic anthropologist, perhaps the forensic anthropologist in the world, and Doctor Arliss Cashel, an ethnologist, were debating just how modern Neanderthal humans actually were.

  Mostyn turned his attention from the scenery back to the report he’d been given by Doctor Rafe Bardon, director of the most secret of the government’s secret agencies: the Office of Unidentified Phenomena, or OUP for short.

  The report contained an account from the 1920s concerning the Martense family and their mansion in the Catskills of New York State. There was another account of an incident similar to the Martense situation from the 1940s that had occurred in the Appalachian region of northern Georgia, and another from the 1970s in the same area. And lastly there were the accounts from West Virginia, deep in the heart of Appalachia. The area to which Mostyn and his team were headed.

  The 1920s account came from an amateur aficionado of the arcane and the macabre who had stumbled on the horror that had become the Martense family and when his findings fell into the hands of certain government agents, it was then that the Federal government took an interest in several mysterious disappearances and murders in the Catskill region.

  As the government had responded to the sinister events at Innsmouth, so too they responded to the situation on Tempest Mountain. To this day, in secret facilities around the country, scientists study the beings that are genetically related to old Gerrit Martense.

  Mostyn looked out the window. The country through which they were driving could be described as nothing less than idyllic. Yet in all of the United States there are areas no more remote or unknown than parts of Appalachia. In spite of the relatively low height of the mountains, the region possesses some of the most rugged and nearly inaccessible terrain on earth.

  From the beauty of the passing scenery, Mostyn once again turned his gaze back to the report. From the Catskills to Georgia, the same occurrences of cannibalism and human carnage. As abruptly as the Georgia horror had begun, in the 1940s, it had ended, news reaching the Federal government too late for war-stretched agencies to do anything about it. Then thirty years later, in the same area, bizarre tales of cannibalism and of the inhabitants of several small communities being torn apart on dark, storm tormented nights. Only blood and body parts being found in the morning.

  And once again, as abruptly as the atrocities began, they ceased, news reaching Federal ears too late for any kind of government intervention. These accounts, along with many others, were passed on to the OUP when it was created. This time, however, word reached Doctor Bardon’s ears almost before it had reached the media. And when it did, Doctor Bardon jumped on it.

  Mostyn read about the three reported incidents that had occurred so far this year in West Virginia, the four that had occurred last year, and the one the year before that. Brutal murders. Evidence of cannibalism. Vague reports of hairy, beast-like creatures that walked upright with an oddly human gait.

  Around him were the sounds of Baker’s camera, Kemper’s and Cashel’s discussion, and Jones softly singing some ‘80s song. Somewhere out there, in the lush greenery of the hills they were passing through, was a hidden horror, a lurking fear that was terrorizing the people in the vicinity of the hamlet called Heirloom, West Virginia.

  Four days ago, in the middle of a wild nighttime thunderstorm, was the most recent occurrence. In the little unincorporated village of Shiloh, located several miles to the southeast of Heirloom, a witness reported seeing at least half a dozen shapes, “things” the witness had called them, come out of the dense forest. That’s all the person saw because he’d found his missing dog and was on his way home.

  The next day, however, the entire community quickly became aware of the disaster that had struck in the night. The Ardilla and Bosk families had been murdered in their sleep and eaten. Raw. The perpetrators showed no concern about hiding the dead or of concealing evidence. The county sheriff got numerous fingerprints, handprints, and casts of bare feet. Samples of hair were also collected. The forensic analysis concluded the hair was human, as well as the teeth marks on the bones.

  And that’s when Doctor Bardon stepped in and claimed jurisdiction. Mostyn looked at Bardon’s small neat script and read his conclusion:

  The incidents in the Catskills and those that occurred in Georgia in the 1940s and 1970s are too similar to these current incidents to ignore. Your mission is to determine the source, assess the danger level, and take appropriate action to eliminate the threat, if a threat exists, to the United States of America.

  Mostyn’s gaze returned to the scenery outside his window. Somewhere out there was a horror that had been quietly at work for nearly a hundred years. Perhaps more. A horror hidden in the shadows of this beautiful paradise.

  2

  Because Heirloom was a dying unincorporated village on the banks of the Ohio River, its glory days long gone, gone with the end of West Virginia coal mining, there were no hotels or restaurants in town. Just a small coffee shop and convenience store. Therefore, Herndon, the accounting wonk who’d made the arrangements, had gotten reservations for Mostyn’s team in New Martinsville, West Virginia, some fifteen and a half miles to the northeast of Heirloom.

  When Jones drove into New Martinsville, Mostyn could see easily enough that this town wasn’t dying. It boasted half a dozen hotels and motels and a Walmart. Herndon had booked them into the Holiday Inn. He’d also given them their IDs and credit cards for this mission. They were agents from the Department of Health and Human Services’s Office of Inspector General. Their cover story was they were investigating the possibilities of disease from the dangerous wild animal attacks.

  Since the time was shortly after one in the afternoon, Mostyn thought it would be best to get lunch before driving over to the county sheriff’s office in Middlebourne. Upon the desk clerk’s recommendation, he had Jones drive the team over to the local Bob Evans restaurant, famous for their homestyle farmhouse menu.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Mostyn,” Kemper blurted out when she heard where they were going for lun
ch. “You can’t be serious?”

  Mansfield asked what was wrong with the food at Bob Evans. Jones said he hoped they had country fried steak. Baker thought their fried chicken was good.

  Kemper shook her head, and muttered, “Men!”

  Cashel laughed, and said, “Oh, Dot. You know the quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. And they like good ol’ comfort food best.”

  Seeing she was outnumbered, Kemper stopped talking and resorted to pouting.

  At the restaurant, the team gathered around a table and a waitress came over to take their orders.

  Jones got his country fried steak, mashed potatoes and country gravy. And Baker, his fried chicken. Mansfield ordered a soup and sandwich combo and Cashel, a slow-roasted ham and cheese sandwich.

  “Well, Kemper, what tickles your taste buds?” Mostyn asked.

  “The Green Goddess salad,” she replied.

  He nodded at her response and said he’d have the same plus a bowl of chili.

  When the waitress left, Mansfield asked Mostyn how they were going to proceed.

  “We’ll check in with the sheriff and let him know we’re conducting an investigation. Perhaps get some information while we’re at it, provided he’s not too territorial. Then we’ll interview the locals.”

  “I thought we already had information on each of the incidences?” Kemper said.

  “We do,” Mostyn replied. “Can’t beat talking to the local authorities, though. Things have a way of not appearing in reports. Plus your man on the street will have heard all manner of gossip and urban legends. Some of which may be useful.”

  “If this is anything like what happened in those previous accounts, this is going to be a rare opportunity to study human regression.” Mansfield’s voice and demeanor radiated excitement.

  Kemper uttered a wry chuckle. “The infamous abhuman of gothic fiction.”

  “You mock, Doctor Kemper, but there is no reason why genetics must always advance and we do know that inbreeding, for instance, generates genetic abnormalities at a higher rate than outbreeding.”

  “All very true, Doctor Mansfield,” Kemper replied. “However, we’ve yet to actually find a true example of a so-called abhuman.”

  Mansfield smiled. “Righto. This seems our best chance. Although you are forgetting the Martense family investigation.”

  Kemper’s face took on a look of disgust. “So secret no one can get near to the scientists working on the project.”

  “Indeed,” Mansfield concurred. “So perhaps we now have the opportunity for our own pet project.”

  “Your pet project. If these abhumans truly exist.”

  Mansfield merely shrugged in response to Kemper’s comment.

  The conversation paused while the waitress arrived with their food. When she left there was a lull while everyone began eating, which didn’t end until everyone was more or less finished.

  “Sorry we don’t have time for dessert,” Mostyn said, “but we need to get to the sheriff’s office.”

  He paid the bill and they filed out of the restaurant and got back into the SUV. Jones set the GPS and followed the directions the British English voice gave him to the county seat of Tyler County.

  West Virginia 180 wound its way through heavily wooded and hilly country. There were plenty of signs of people. Mobile homes, churches, Ma and Pa businesses, houses, and cars. Although there were stretches of highway that seemed to have been carved through great swaths of dark primeval forest.

  “Sure wouldn’t want to get a flat tire here,” Kemper said.

  Jones quipped, “I wouldn’t want one anywhere.”

  “You would miss the point,” Kemper shot back.

  Looking in the rearview mirror, Jones asked, “Don’t you ever get tired of being nasty?”

  Before Kemper replied, Mostyn, his voice tinged with a stern edge, said, “Enough. Change the subject.” And that put the damper on any talk until they arrived in Middlebourne.

  Once in the county seat, Cashel said, “Looks like any other small town.”

  “That it does,” Baker agreed.

  Houses, shops, and stores lined Main Street. And just passed the Dollar General was the county courthouse building.

  “Look at that!” Mansfield exclaimed. “A clocktower!”

  Jones parked, everyone got out of the SUV, and walked into the big old building. The directory informed them the sheriff’s office was in the back of the building and that’s where Mostyn and his team went.

  Sheriff L. W. Elswick was in and agreed to see them.

  “What can I do for you, Mr Mostyn?”

  “We’re from the Office of the Inspector General of the Department of Health and Human Services.” Mostyn showed the sheriff his credentials. “This is my team.” And he introduced everyone.

  “I’m not aware of any health problem,” Elswick said. “Is there a welfare problem?”

  Mostyn smiled. “We’re here to investigate the possibility of contagious disease from the vicious animal attacks that have occurred.”

  “I see.” The sheriff was hesitant.

  “Is there a problem, Sheriff?” Mostyn asked.

  “No, not really. Although we might not be dealing with animals.”

  “No?”

  “No. There are indications, from marks on the bones of some of the victims, that the attackers were human.”

  “I see. Are you saying there are indications of cannibalism?”

  “That’s what I’m saying, Special Agent Mostyn.”

  Mansfield spoke. “There are a few rare diseases that can afflict humans and cause them to act in this manner. And those diseases can be contagious. So even if the killer is human, these cases would still fall within our purview.”

  “Okay. Are you joining our investigation?”

  Mostyn knew that tone of voice. It was that of the local authority resenting federal intrusion onto their turf.

  “No, we aren’t,” he replied. “We would like to talk to those involved and see what you’ve come up with thus far. But we aren’t horning in. We’ll be conducting our own investigation independent of yours. And I’ll be more than happy to share with you anything we think might be of help to you.”

  The sheriff breathed a visible sigh of relief. “I’d like that. And we’ll share what we have, if it will help you.”

  “Very good. Do you have time to talk now?”

  The next forty-five minutes were spent with the sheriff telling Mostyn and his people about the incidents and answering their questions.

  The information was mostly a repeat of what they’d already read in the files from Bardon. There had been fourteen brutal attacks going back three years with three of those attacks occurring this year. The number of victims had increased with each year and each attack, evidence that the perpetrators were getting bolder.

  Both local and FBI forensics had verified human teeth markings on numerous bones, which indicated both cannibalism and the existence of at least six different perpetrators and that they were probably working together.

  The sheriff ran his fingers through his hair. “Quite honestly, the bodies are piling up. Four days ago, ten people died over there in Shiloh. Two families completely wiped out. And it was grizzly. Bodies just ripped apart. Whatever these things are, whatever is causing them to do what they’re doing, must be stopped. I have a near panic situation on my hands here.”

  “We’ll do what we can, Sheriff,” Mostyn assured him.

  Kemper spoke, “I’d like to examine the bodies, Sheriff, if I may.”

  “You’re the forensic anthropologist, right? Dr Kemper?”

  “I am.”

  “Dr Arrington is pretty good. I can give you his report.”

  Kemper stepped up to the sheriff’s desk and put her hands on it so her face was close to Elswick’s. “I’m the best goddamn forensic anthropologist on this planet and I’d like to take a look at the bodies myself.”

  Mostyn could tell the sheriff was getting for a
fight. He stepped forward and gently touched Kemper’s shoulder. She straightened and took a step back.

  “It would help us if Dr Kemper could draw her own conclusions,” Mostyn explained, his voice placating. “Then she could compare her conclusions with your Dr Arrington’s.”

  “I’ll see what I can arrange.” Elswick turned from Kemper and looked at Mostyn. “Call me in the morning and I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks, Sheriff,” Mostyn said. “We’ll get out of your hair now.”

  Mostyn and Elswick shook hands. Mostyn turned to his team and said, “Let’s hit the road.”

  Once outside the Sheriff’s office, Mostyn told the others to go on out to the SUV and that he and Dotty would be along shortly.

  She stopped, and, with fists on her hips, faced Mostyn. “Are you going to chew me out for what I said back there?”

  “Huh? Uh, no. No.”

  “Well, what then?”

  Mostyn motioned they should start walking and he and Kemper slowly made their way to the front door.

  “Us. Dotty. I’m sorry. I did what I had to do to get everyone back.”

  She stopped and faced him. Her eyes blazed for a moment, then she relaxed. “I know, Pierce. I… I…”

  “You need more time.”

  She nodded.

  “Okay. I can give you more time. If there had been any other way, I swear…”

  “You did what you needed to do. You, yourself, have always said our job, the OUP and what we do, is bigger and more important than us. We are expendable. That’s true, but a woman doesn’t want to think that includes love. It’s the stuff of romance novels. Our book boyfriends.”