by JL Bryan
It looked like a whirlwind had torn through the museum, smashing everything. Deep, long ax marks covered the walls and floor as if some giant beast had clawed up the room.
“We have it all on video,” I said, hanging back in the doorway with Stacey.
“I'll have to start all over,” Josh murmured.
“I thought she might be after the grave goods she'd been buried with.” I pointed to the artifacts arranged on the floor where I'd left them. “But it just sent her into a wilder fury, if anything. She clearly has an opinion about them, I'll say that.”
“I can't believe we're stuck with this awful place,” Allison murmured, staring at the broken, dead owl in its case, its feathers everywhere.
“It's not awful—” Josh began, but she cut him off with a severe look. Allison, not surprisingly, was still seething over Josh not mentioning the deaths at the camp before they'd bought it.
“So, on the bright side, something triggered our trap upstairs while we were distracted with all the big events downstairs,” I told them.
“Yeah, we even caught a cold spot heading that way!” Stacey was extra chipper, as if she could will the mood in the room to lighten up. She couldn't, though. “So we probably captured one. Possibly. Y'all want to see the video?”
“You actually trapped a ghost?” Josh asked, either genuinely interested or eager to turn the conversation away from his own mistakes. “Can I see it?”
“There's not much to see...” I unzipped my backpack where I'd stashed the ghost trap after inspecting the stamper. Carmody's picture and grave earth were inside, the bits of clover and wildflowers shriveled and brown. Josh peered into the cylindrical trap. I answered his questions briefly, explaining the thick leaded glass and electromagnetic field that worked together to keep the entity inside, at least until the battery died.
Allison watched from a distance, her face set into a glower, a detonation waiting for a trigger. I did my best to avoid providing one.
“We can help you clean up,” I said. “Since I couldn't stop the entity.”
“You don't have to do that,” Josh said.
“Oh, no, we totally insist.” Stacey drew on gloves. I'd put mine on, too, before returning to the wrecked room.
I walked over to the epicenter of damage, the destroyed archaeological display, the wall above so thick with overlapping hack-marks it almost looked like the Trailwalker had tried to write a message. Or maybe the logo of a heavy metal band.
“I really don't understand,” I said. “I thought she wanted her stuff. What's that?”
Josh and Stacey stepped closer to see where I pointed.
“I don't know,” Josh said, barely above a whisper.
Kneeling, I pulled off splintered, broken pieces of what had been the wooden floor of the archaeological display case. The little mound of quartzite rocks taken from the Stony Owl effigy had been heaped there in a tiny imitation of the effigy; now they were scattered across the room or had fallen through the ax-damaged base.
The damage to the display's floor revealed its base was hollow. Pulling off the broken bits and lengths of wood, I revealed what had been hidden within: a rust-splotched iron box, locked at the front.
“What is that?” Allison hurried over to join us. “Josh, what is that?”
“I don't know,” he said. “I didn't know anything was inside there.”
“There's no opening or access panel in the base. Whoever put this here meant to keep it concealed for the long term.” I brushed quartzite pebbles off the box.
After some trial and error with the museum key ring, I found the key to the box.
“I'm not sure I want to see what's in there,” Allison said, suddenly looking ill.
“Maybe you don't,” I said, but she didn't look away.
The lock resisted, turning slowly. It wasn't just the outside of the iron box that had gone rusty over the years.
Right when I thought I'd have to go grab my lock picks, the lock gave with a reluctant hiss, as though I'd awoken a serpent inside.
“Okay,” I said, positioning my gloved fingers on the front corners. “Let's just... get it over with.”
I lifted the lid.
Allison screamed. Josh recoiled with a grunt like he'd been punched in the stomach, then let out a series of hacking sounds; for a minute I thought he would throw up, adding fresh biohazards to the significant mess already present in the room.
Stacey flinched and drew in a long, sharp breath between her teeth.
I suppose I wasn't as shocked; my intuition about what we'd find had been right, unfortunately.
Broken pieces of bone were scattered inside, along with chunks of deer antler inset with heavy beadwork.
Most notable, though, was the dirt-colored human skull at the center of the box, almost certainly the one amateur archaeologist Tennyford was holding in the yellowed photograph that had been knocked from the back of the display, its frame shattered.
“Oh,” Stacey said. “Well, if that's her head, there's a good chance she's going to want that back.”
“Agreed.” I closed the box in a hurry.
“So... should we put the bones into a trap? Try to nab the Trailwalker?” Stacey asked.
I thought it over. “No. Let's gather up all this stuff from her grave and return it where it belongs. Today, before sunset. Right now, in fact.” I looked at Josh. “I hope you guys have some shovels.”
Looking at the rusty box, he nodded slowly, still reeling from the sight of the skull.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A thick fog had risen in the mountains, so we couldn't see more than a few steps ahead. It was like walking through a dream, clouds obscuring every side. The trees were shadowy sentinels, watching us intruders in this land where perhaps none of us belonged, this ancient site of unknown purpose. Perhaps Tennyford had been right, and there had been an entire temple complex here, a forgotten holy city from a forgotten world.
Stacey and I hiked the steep, winding trail toward the effigy mound along with the entire Conner family. The boys trudged behind, carrying shovels and spades, as happy as any pair of teenagers recruited into heavy manual labor first thing in the morning.
Shiloh held her mother's hand, watching the foggy wilderness with wide eyes, saying nothing.
The wooded hillside was unusually quiet; the owls and bats had gone for the day, but the morning birds seemed to slumber on in the deep fog, untouched by sunlight. Or maybe only night creatures lived on Stony Owl Hill.
Josh opened the gate and led us inside. We were as quiet as a funeral procession, which I supposed was appropriate for our purpose there.
With so much fog, we couldn't see most of the enormous mound of rocks even when we stood beside it. The place had a definite graveyard feel, like it was full of unseen presences, watching from all around, just out of sight. We kept our voices low, instinctively, the way one does in the presence of the dead.
“Where, Ellie?” Allison asked.
“Charles Tennyford dug a trench to the owl's heart,” I said. “So we should bury it in the center.”
“That's the thickest part, though,” Ephraim said.
“It'll take forever,” Nathan added, in case we hadn't caught Ephraim's subtext.
“Then it's a good thing we're starting early.” Josh picked up a shovel and stepped onto the stone pile.
“Wait,” I told him, then nodded at Stacey.
She set up the speakers we normally carried on our belts. Over them we played a list of assorted Cherokee music—still off by at least a thousand years or more, but the Trailwalker had seemed to respond to it. Hopefully, it conveyed our positive intent, if nothing else.
“Keep your eyes open,” I said. “Remember, Tennyford died here.”
“But there's no more mountain lions now,” Ephraim said. “Unless you're saying...”
“He was also camping here at night, right by the big burial mound,” Nathan said.
“No way I would ever do that,” Ephraim said
.
“Yeah, cause you're a pluckin' chicken.” Nathan snorted.
“Watch your language, Nathan!” Allison snapped.
“I did. All I said was Effie's a—”
“Nathan!” She cut him off.
“Don't call me Effie,” Ephraim added.
“Stacey, you stick with Allison and Shiloh,” I said. “Stay off the rocks and near the gate. I'll stay close to these guys and keep watch. For friendly animals,” I added, for Shiloh's benefit, but she looked at me with obvious doubt. The kid knew a lie when she heard one.
As the grumbling teenagers began to dig, I went on a slow patrol around the mound. Even with my flashlight, I couldn't see far through the fog.
I listened for footsteps, watched for shadow figures, took EMF and temperature readings. The bones and other items had to be returned to the grave, I was sure, but it was possible the Trailwalker wouldn't appreciate us digging here regardless.
Tense, on edge, I expected an attack from any direction. The hilltop could certainly have picked a better morning to be sheathed in heavy fog and deep shadows.
Josh and the boys dug and dug, lifting and dropping, the blades of their shovels scraping against quartzite.
Allison kept close to her daughter, who played silently with plastic late-model Disney heroines I didn't even recognize. Shiloh concentrated so intensely on the little figures that I thought her eyes might burn a hole through them, a look I'd seen on her mother's face before. Her lips moved as she walked them through the weeds and dirt, but she didn't say anything I could hear.
Drawing close to the old observation tower, I gazed up at the viewing gallery at the top, from which Stacey and I had gazed down on the owl in its full glory. I wondered if the ancients had built a similar tower in their day, or perhaps climbed nearby trees for the complete view.
The Mississippian mound builder culture had been a civilization spanning thousands of miles when Hernando de Soto and friends arrived with the diseases that destroyed them. The hill where we stood might well have been an active temple complex or home to a powerful chieftain around the time the Caesars had ruled Rome. Unfortunately, there were no records of any of it. Just bowls, blades, and bones.
“Shiloh!” Allison called. “Shiloh, slow down!”
I hurried toward her voice, but it was hard to see what was happening. As I drew closer, I saw Stacey's beam cutting through the fog. Stacey was chasing Allison, who chased Shiloh, who was running toward the open gate. “Shiloh, we're staying together, honey!”
“But there's people in the woods,” Shiloh said, in her small voice. She pointed through the gate to the fog-thick woods beyond.
“Let's stay back from the woods and inside the fence, everyone!” Stacey said.
“What kind of people, Shiloh?” I asked, startling everyone. Great, now I was the creepy shadow suddenly emerging from the fog.
“I don't know,” she answered, staring out the gate to the woods.
“What are they doing?”
“Watching us. Not smiling. They must be cold. It's cold today.”
“It sure is.” I shared a concerned look with Stacey, then turned back to the mound. “Guys, that's probably deep enough.”
I hurried toward the mound, unzipping my backpack.
“They're coming closer,” Shiloh said, her voice fearful yet sing-songy at the same time.
“Stacey, bring everyone this way! Everyone stay together!” I said as I reached the mound of rocks. Josh, Ephraim, and Nathan had paused their digging to look at me.
“What's happening?” Josh said.
“We need to hurry.” I looked out at the fog; I couldn't see much beyond where Stacey, Allison, and Shiloh huddled together, barely visible themselves, like ghosts in a cloud. Stacey had her flashlight widened into floodlight mode, trying to create a protective shield of white light against any advancing spirits, for whatever that was worth.
The guys had only managed to dig down a few feet into the rocks. We should have gone much deeper, down into the soil below the mound, where everything had originally been buried.
But we were out of time.
Shapes appeared in the fog all around the owl effigy mound. Tall, spindly shadow-shapes—if we'd been in the woods, I would have assumed they were small trees, barely glimpsed through the fog, their twig-thin limbs reaching out like arms.
But no trees of that size grew inside the fence, and these shapes had not been there a moment earlier.
“Mommy!” Shiloh screamed, no longer sing-songy, burying her face in her mother's sleeve.
“What's going on?” Ephraim asked.
“We've attracted some paranormal attention.” I knelt next to the little pit they'd dug, wishing it was much deeper. Then I opened my backpack.
We had transferred everything out of the rusty iron box since it was obviously not original to the grave. Perhaps Tennyford had stored the remains in it after his excavation in the 1800s. The skull and bones of the Trailwalker had been missing from her grave for more than a century, if so.
It was unusual for a spirit to hang around for thousands of years, but it seemed the Trailwalker had not been a typical person, nor this mound a typical settlement.
The artifacts were in a burlap bag, which I set carefully down into the hole.
The ground shifted beneath us with a low rumble.
Not the ground—the rocks, the million tiny rocks that made up the mound, had begun to shift and slide, as though the earth below had turned to quicksand. Or maybe something was trying to climb out of the grave below. Something enormous.
“Get off!” I shouted at the guys. “Everybody off!”
“Why should we—” Nathan began, but his father forced him off the stone owl. Ephraim ran off the owl without being told.
Everybody grouped together, off to one side of the owl.
Everybody except me, kneeling in the rocks that had begun to shift this way and that.
My backpack, still holding the Trailwalker's bones, slid away as I reached for it. The moving rocks carried it downhill and off toward the Stony Owl's wing.
Grunting in frustration, I crawled after it on hands and knees, sharp rocks jabbing me everywhere as the thousands of rocks of the burial mound kept moving and sliding. I lost my balance and face-planted, taking some stinging rocks to the face.
Stacey swung her light back and forth as more and more of the tall, string-thin dark shapes appeared in the fog—not just one entity, but a group of them, maybe spirits as old as the Trailwalker herself. Perhaps there was more than one grave on this mound. Maybe there were many bodies buried here. Or maybe this was her entourage, her bodyguards, whatever loyal servants she might have had in life, still loyally serving her in death.
Our iPod died and the Cherokee music stopped, removing whatever protection it might have afforded us, if any.
In the trees all around, the owls hooted up a storm, awoken from their morning slumber by all the noise. If owls were said to guide the dead to the next world, perhaps they could also guide souls back from the land of the dead, under the right circumstances; owls awake and chattering in the daytime, a reversal of the normal, natural order, just as the dead returning to our world was a reversal. These were the kind of fevered thoughts my mind was generating at the time.
I stretched out on my stomach and managed to hook a finger around one strap of my backpack before it slid completely out of reach.
A massive column of solid darkness towered over me, taller than ever, swallowing all the light. Perhaps the fog turned thicker and grayer, or clouds had drawn across the rising sun like a cloak, but the world went dark as night in her presence, as if even the heavens bowed to her authority.
I was freezing cold and isolated—Stacey and the family could have been a thousand miles away, for all that I could see or hear them. Maybe it was a trick of the fog, too. Or a trick of the supernatural, moving me away from the rules of the regular world into places I couldn't begin to understand.
Focus, Elli
e. I told myself. Just focus.
I dragged my backpack to the hole dug into the rocks.
From inside the backpack, I withdrew a silk pillowcase, the end knotted tight. The skull and bones were inside. Allison had donated the pillowcase as a way of showing respect for the remains. Best we could do in a pinch.
The shadows drew close around me, vague figures in the fog ringing me like hunters surrounding their prey.
The Trailwalker's bones clicked inside the silk pillowcase as I gently placed it inside the pit.
The figures continued to close in.
I upended my backpack, and out spilled all the little quartzite stones that had been used to make the mini-owl in the museum display. They scattered over the burlap-wrapped artifacts and silk-wrapped bones.
Then I tossed my backpack aside and eased back from the pit. My hand went automatically to my flashlight holster, but I'd lost the flashlight while crawling across the slipping, sliding rocks.
So I stayed there, on my hands and knees, watching.
The Trailwalker had shifted back to the tall, fierce-looking woman I'd seen by the lake, only in greater detail than before, the apparition sharper. I could see a plate of copper shielding her chest, an obsidian knife sheathed in leather at her hip, spiraling beadwork on her high deerskin boots.
She wore gemstone rings and seashell bangles and woven necklaces, her clothing intricately beaded but loose and light, ideal for running the trails of Georgia's mountains.
She stared down at me, her eyes large and dark and coldly beautiful.
The ax in her hands was perfectly positioned to swing across the small pit between us, to cave in my ribs or sweep through my neck. I was at her mercy.
The shadows in the fog were clearer than ever—still featureless shades, really, but now in the shape of men and women, a group of them crowding in as if to watch my execution.
I looked up at her again.
Then I closed my eyes, whispering.
Begging for my life.
The owls, tribunes and escorts of the dead, fell silent.
After a few seconds of silence, I opened my eyes, thinking everything was fine.
