Lake Nutaq (Berkley Street Series Book 6)

by Ron Ripley

  “I can’t go,” Shane said, pinching out his cigarette and leaving the butt on the floor.

  “Why not?” she asked, surprised.

  “Because I won’t leave the young man to be tortured any more than I have to,” Shane said, standing up. “I have to try and help him.”

  “Then you’ll join him.” Patience sighed. “I hope your death will be quick, Shane.”

  She stood up, shuddering. A deep, multi-voiced moan filled the cabin.

  “Broken Nose is wandering,” Patience said. “Make your peace.”

  She turned and left, disappearing into the darkness.

  Shane waited a moment, then he zipped his coat up all the way, pulled on his gloves and took a deep breath. It was time to try and save the driver.

  Squaring his shoulders, Shane stepped over the line of salt and headed for the door.

  Chapter 17: Anxious and Concerned

  Frank sat at the kitchen table across from Brian, who frowned at his phone.

  “Everything alright?” Frank asked.

  “Yeah,” Brian said, shaking his head as he put the phone on the table. “Worried about Jenny, is all. She’s going to stay the night at her sister’s place. The roads are terrible in Merrimack. Probably all over the state.”

  Frank nodded. The weather report hadn’t been good. Not only had the storm come back from the Atlantic Ocean, but it had also settled down on the whole of New Hampshire, southern Maine, and all of eastern Vermont. The entire area was getting an average snowfall of an inch to two inches an hour, with some spots getting three an hour. It was worse than the Blizzard of ’76.

  “We’ve got a spare bedroom upstairs, if you’d rather stay here than risk the roads,” Brian offered.

  “Yeah,” Frank said. “I appreciate that.”

  “Wish I could be on the road to Lake Nutaq now,” Frank said, “Think we can figure out where it is now? And who the hell might be haunting it?”

  “Sure. We haven’t lost power yet,” Brian said, standing up. “Let’s go in the study. We can do a little digging if you want.”

  “That’d be great,” Frank said. He followed Brian out of the kitchen and walked down the short hallway. Brian’s study was small, neat, and extremely organized. “Damn.”

  Brian grinned as he sat down at his desk. “I’ve discovered that cleaning helps me relax. And that’s worth its weight in gold after a couple of heart attacks.”

  “A couple?” Frank asked, glancing over his shoulder as he went to the hearth. The mantle was a single, long piece of granite. Photographs of Jenny, young men in uniform, and what looked like a World War 2 era wedding occupied places of honor on the mantle. The groom wore an Army uniform with sergeant’s stripes and a lot of ribbons.

  “Those were the guys in my platoon,” Brian said, the keys of his laptop clacking beneath his fingers.

  “And the wedding picture?” Frank asked.

  “My grandparents,” Brian answered. “On my dad’s side. Tough man. Fought in Europe during the Second World War, then in Korea.”

  “That’s impressive,” Frank said.

  “Yeah,” Brian said, “he was a hell of a man.”

  Frank turned away from the pictures, he was anxious, the desire to leave, to do something, was eating at him.

  “Hey, take a seat,” Brian said, gesturing to a chair by the desk. “I’m connected, and I pulled up a site on the history of Lake Nutaq.”

  “A whole site?” Frank asked, sitting down. “What is it, a tourist one? Come and swim in our unseasonably cold, dark water?”

  Brian snorted with laughter. “No. Looks like it’s done by someone who was looking at the supernatural aspect of it.”

  Brian angled the laptop as Frank shifted the chair as well.

  The website was barebones, a generic background of headstones. On the left of the screen was a map. Ads for psychics and tarot readings scrolled by on the right.

  But the middle was the meat. Paragraphs of text. A few highlighted words and phrases, embedded links to other sites.

  Frank leaned forward, and he started to read.

  Lake Nutaq, from the Micmac word ‘to hear’ is said to echo with the voices of the dead. Unlike most theoretical haunted places, Lake Nutaq does not have a long, and storied history of unexplained deaths. What it does have, however, is a brutal history.

  In 1675, a small community of English colonists was established near the lake. They called their village Williamstown and lived in an uneasy peace with the local Micmac tribe. The Micmacs were heavily influenced by a member of the False Face Society, a medicine man who took the name of Broken Nose. When King Philip’s War broke out in the lower sections of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, the Micmacs received word, and Broken Nose convinced his followers to attack the colonists.

  The colonists, who numbered only forty-seven, retreated to the house of Reverend Ezekiel Williams. Per tradition, the Reverend’s house was the strongest, fortified and prepared in case of an attack.

  Unfortunately for the colonists, Broken Nose was adamant that the house be taken. After a four-day siege, which was an extremely unusual tactic for the Native Americans of the time, the house was taken. Forty-six of the people within were dragged out. Nathan, the reverend’s ten-year-old son, managed to hide himself in the roof, crammed between the thatch and a joist. While he was unable to see what occurred next, young Nathan was quite able to hear.

  The members of his father’s congregation were tortured to death.

  The process took three days, and the entire time, Nathan remained hidden. He did not leave the garrison until he heard the King’s English being spoken by a group of militiamen.

  These men were led by Adam Hawkins, a resident of Williamstown, who had managed to slip away from the siege. He made for the nearby town of Reach and gathered a patrol of militiamen.

  The militiamen approached the rear of the house and made the horrific discovery of the bodies of the colonists. Several accounts remain of what they saw, and all speak of the dead, of how more than a few of their chests had been cracked open, and the hearts removed. It was not unheard of for some of the Native Americans to practice limited acts of cannibalism, especially after dealing with a particularly worthy opponent. Jesuit missionaries in New France had reported how the Native Americans believed that by consuming the heart of a man or woman, the cannibal gained both the power of the individual, as well as gaining power over that individual.

  Eventually, Broken Nose died, but not at the hands of anyone other than Time. He died of old age, somewhere near Lake Nutaq. The reason for this was simple. Those militiamen who attempted to go after Broken Nose’s Micmacs rarely returned. The houses of the slain colonists fell into disrepair, and the forest reclaimed them over the decades.

  Nathan was lost to history, being sent back to England to live with relatives in Surrey. It wasn’t until the conclusion of the French and Indian War, nearly a hundred years after the massacre of the colonists, that white people returned to Lake Nutaq.

  There was no immediate supernatural event when they did so, although six years after they arrived, a pair of hunters vanished in a snowstorm. After the storm had subsided, others in the community sought them out. Three days had passed before the bodies were found. Both men had been stripped naked and tortured to death. One had his chest ripped open, and the heart was gone.

  While the deaths were disturbing, they were not the most unsettling aspects for those second settlers. What bothered them was the lack of footprints. It was obvious to the men who found the hunters that the bodies were fresh. No more than a day old, which meant that the storm had finished and no new snow had fallen. Yet the snow was unbroken.

  Decades had passed before another incident was recorded in the history of Lake Nutaq. Three men, looking for a new logging site, were swallowed by a storm. These men were found nearly a month later. Their remains had been mauled by the animals, but, like the hunters, the men were bare and tortured.

  It was then that the rumors be
gan.

  Similarities between the deaths were pointed out. Someone noticed that the men had been killed in a way much the same as those who had died in the raid of Broken Nose’s Micmacs.

  Over the decades, only a few others have been killed. All have been found like those reported. In addition to that, the bodies are always discovered in the same location, without fail. While there hasn’t been a disappearance since the Blizzard of 1976, the authorities knew exactly where to look.

  A small, private road, home of the Preston Cabins. They are empty in the off-season, the privileged owners far from the brutal New England cold, and the voracious, vengeful ghosts of Broken Nose’s Micmacs.

  Frank sank back into the chair.

  Brian got up, went to a small cabinet, and took out a pair of tumblers and a bottle of bourbon. He poured a healthy dose into each of them and handed one to Frank.

  Frank nodded his thanks as Brian returned to his seat.

  “This is not good,” Frank said, breaking the silence.

  Brian shook his head. “Does Shane have any of his stuff? Anything at all?”

  “I don’t think so,” Frank replied. “I mean, why would he? Carl said he was going for a drive. It’s not like Shane expected to run into ghosts.”

  “No,” Brian said, sighing. “No. Why would he?”

  Frank took a drink of the bourbon, the liquor strong and smooth as it slid down his throat. “If this snow doesn’t stop soon, he’ll be dead.”

  “Well,” Brian said. “Here’s to it ending soon.”

  The two men finished their drinks.

  “Come on,” Brian said, standing up. “Let’s get the gear together, so you can get out of here as soon as a plow unburies us.”

  Frank nodded, stood, and prayed the storm would end soon.

  Chapter 18: A Long Night

  Shane was familiar with long nights.

  And he hated them.

  He moved out of the cabin, across the porch and hesitated. In the darkness, he could hear the dead. The voices of the Indians were loud and brazen, drowning out the night sounds of the forest. Shane looked at the wrecked snow plow, and went down the steps. The snow was up to his knees, chilling his flesh.

  Shane managed five more paces and froze.

  A pair of dead men appeared, their backs to him. They chatted, their words rising and falling. The wind carried bits of their conversation to him, and Shane learned that the driver was still alive.

  Shane’s eyes darted to the broken piece of iron, his heart racing. He tried to judge the distance, the time it would take him to cover it and tear the metal free.

  If it were even possible.

  He forced himself to try, and then held his breath.

  Two more dead Indians joined the first pair, and Shane knew he had no chance.

  His stomach tensed and the adrenaline which had fueled his efforts fled, leaving him with a nauseous feeling. Shane’s hands trembled and his heart rumbled. Forcing himself to breathe in a steady, normal rhythm, Shane edged back to the cabin. His eyes never left the dead men, and soon he found the steps to the porch.

  Up he went, silently and carefully. He moved across the threshold like a wraith and he managed to close the door without a sound. The effort to move the table quietly into place against the door caused sweat to explode across his brow and down his spine.

  But he succeeded.

  With his entire body shaking, Shane retreated to the bedroom.

  He sat down on the bed, stripped off his jacket, and sighed, both angry and depressed.

  “You’re still here,” Patience said from the doorway.

  Shane jumped.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” Patience said, sitting down on the floor.

  “That’s okay,” Shane said, forcing a smile. He dragged the blanket up and wrapped it around his shoulders. He got himself a cigarette and lit it.

  “So,” he said, anger rising up, “Do they talk about anything other than torture?”

  Patience shook her head, then looked at him with surprise. “You know their language?”

  Shane nodded. “It’s a little gift I have.”

  “Ah,” she said. Patience looked at him a moment longer before she said, “No. Torture is all they think of. The four with Broken Nose, they were his most loyal. They know that only through torture, will the strength of the victim be revealed. It is only the strong ones that Broken Nose needs. He has no desire to leave this world, and neither do they.”

  “Have you ever asked him to let you leave?” Shane asked.

  Patience gave him a small smile as she shook her head. “Why would I try and ask for something I know he would not give?”

  Shane shrugged. He glanced around and asked, “How’s the storm out there?”

  “It is worse,” she replied. “Broken Nose is angry. The world is not moving the way it should.”

  “What does that mean?” Shane asked, confused.

  Patience nodded. “He feels the storm is too long as if he is being punished. He is fearful too, although he will not show it. But I know.”

  “How?” Shane inquired. “How do you know he’s afraid?”

  “We are close,” Patience answered. “Far closer than any of the others. I always know when he is afraid.”

  “Is that why you know when he’s looking for you, too?” Shane asked.

  “Yes,” Patience said. She adjusted the blanket. It was a rough, dark material and looked as if it had been woven on a loom. Her hands clutched it closer, and other than her head, they were the only parts of her which could be seen.

  Shane had a sudden, sickening idea of her body’s appearance beneath the blanket.

  “Were you killed in that blanket?” he asked her.

  Patience nodded. “At the end. I was bare before that. It was easier for them to work upon me. To prepare me, I suppose.”

  “For death?” Shane asked.

  “Yes,” Patience said. “And Broken Nose felt it would be proper for me to die in something of my own people. My clothes had not survived the ordeal. Nor did my flesh. He was surprisingly considerate when it came to the blanket.”

  “I’m sorry,” Shane said.

  “You have no reason to be sorry,” Patience said, smiling. “You were not the one who tortured me to death. And you were not the one who ate my heart.”

  “I’m saddened that you had to suffer,” Shane said, and he choked on the words, realizing for the first time how hard it was to look at the girl.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “I suffer still.”

  “Where is your body?” Shane asked her.

  Patience tilted her head and looked at him with curiosity. “Why?”

  “If you want,” Shane said, “I can salt and burn your bones. It would free you.”

  “Free me?” she repeated, her words so low Shane had a difficult time hearing her.

  “Yes,” he said, leaning forward. “I can free you. You would be able to go to wherever you’re supposed to go next. Even if it’s nothingness.”

  The low, pained moan filled the cabin, and Shane tried to ignore it.

  Finally, the sound faded and Patience asked, “And what of them, Shane?”

  “Who?” Shane asked. “Broken Nose and his faithful?”

  “No,” Patience said. “The others. What of them? Those who are bound? What will become of them once I am freed?”

  “Patience,” Shane said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The dead girl stood up, her hands tight upon her blanket.

  “Will you look upon me?” she asked in a grim voice. “Will you see what was wrought upon my flesh?”

  Shane wanted to say no.

  He wanted to scream it.

  Instead, he nodded and whispered, “Yes.”

  Patience shifted her grip on the edges of the blanket and extended her arms to either side.

  The sight that greeted Shane both revolted and fascinated him.

  Her arms had been shredded, flesh hangin
g in long, curling strips from the bones. Huge chunks were missing from the muscle mass. The bones of her ribs and sternum had been broken, pulled outward to form a brutal, gruesome flower. Each bit of yellowish bone a grotesque petal.

  None of these compared in horror to what Shane saw where Patience’s organs should have been.

  Instead of her stomach and liver, her heart and her lungs, there were faces. Dozens and dozens of faces, all of them stuffed into the small, scraped out cavity. Their eyes were wide. Some in shock. Others with pure terror. A few were outraged. The majority looked numb.

  As Shane watched, the faces twisted and moved, swirling in a maddening pattern. At the edge of clarity, he heard whispers. Most were prayers, a few curses. Some babbled, incoherent and insane.

  “What of them?” Patience asked, closing the blanket again and returning to the floor. “What will happen to them if I am freed?”

  Shane shook his head. He tried to push the image of what he had seen away and found he couldn’t.

  “How?” he managed to ask.

  “I don’t know,” Patience answered. “Broken Nose stuffed them into me. Each soul. As the years have passed, he has added others. Not many. Only one or two at a time. But there they are, and there they have remained. When he is hungry and feeling weak, I must go to him so he could feed. I let him feast on the strongest, and I make sure none are devoured. So you must tell me, Shane, what will happen to them if I am freed?”

  Shane shook his head and whispered, “I don’t know.”

  Chapter 19: Getting Out

  Shane had not fallen back to sleep after Patience had left the cabin.

  Instead, he had remained upright, chain smoking until he ran out of cigarettes. By the time the light of dawn could be seen around the edges of the curtain, the world had gone silent beyond the cabin. No longer could he hear the screams of the driver. Part of Shane wondered if the man was even alive; if it would be worthwhile to try and rescue a corpse.