Forest (The Afterlife Investigations Book 2) Read online

  The souls of the dead are like a web. But the Occupant is something else. It stands apart. It's like the spider sitting at the center of that web.

  I ground out my cigarette and tossed it away. “Well, what do you have to say about that?” I asked. “Do you believe in coincidences, or are you beginning to understand the nightmare we've found ourselves trapped in?”

  Jake was mulling over this new twist and didn't reply at once. Sitting on the concrete wall opposite me, he eventually answered, “The doctor was interested in this Milsbourne place, and Elizabeth was supposedly born there. Maybe there's a connection between the two of them.”

  “There very well could be.” Back in Michigan, Jane had mentioned how the Occupant had singled me out, how it had used me to get out of the Asylum. But then, maybe, it had only used me to get close to Elizabeth. “It could be that Elizabeth's been the target this entire time,” I continued. “When we answered the Occupant's call and went into that asylum, it must've known that I'd be bringing Elizabeth with me. And, you know, she's in one of my classes. The Occupant supposedly glimpsed me when that kid on Main Street died in my arms, but I'm hardly the only person in Moorlake who's witnessed a death or been touched by it. The Occupant doubled down on me, lured me, because it knew I could bring it Elizabeth.”

  “But why her? Of all the people it could have latched onto, what made Elizabeth a target?” demanded Jake.

  “There's a lot we don't know about how the Occupant operates,” I explained. “And moreover, there's apparently a lot we don't know about your girlfriend or where she came from.” I hopped down and motioned to the parking lot. “There's one place we might be able to find some answers, though. Better yet, we may even find Elizabeth there waiting for us.”

  Jake sighed, but fell into step behind me. “Going on a road trip with you was not what I had in mind for this break, just so you know.”

  I scoffed. “Yeah? Well, just so you know, I'd been planning on spending two weeks in my underwear reading paperbacks and drinking. This isn't exactly my idea of a vacation either. But do you want to sit here and gripe, or do you want to see this thing through to the end? You tried running away from it before, remember? When I was up in Hiawatha. How'd that turn out?”

  Jake's hand moved instinctively to his black eye and he said nothing more.

  “One way or another, we're going to get this figured out. I don't know what's waiting for us at the end of the line. I'm sure it won't be pretty, but we don't have a choice.” Before slipping into the driver's seat, I decided to rummage around in my trunk, have a look at the materials I'd gathered up at Corvine's cabin. Perhaps the book referencing Milsbourne was among them. Running through the titles of each, then re-checking them with a flagging sense of hope, I realized I didn't have a match and slammed the trunk shut.

  We were going to have to go elsewhere for answers.

  “I'd been hoping that maybe the library book was in among the stuff I'd hauled in from Corvine's place up north, but I didn't see it,” I said, taking a seat.

  “What else is back there?” chanced Jake.

  “A boatload of paper. Cassette tapes. Books on science... chemistry. Drawings that Enid, as well as Corvine's niece, had done of the Occupant after their experimental sessions. There's a fair bit of handwritten material I haven't been able to look through yet, but I don't know that it's going to get us anywhere.” I recalled the letter I'd found in that box with the video tapes, the despairing missive that had served almost as an epitaph for Corvine's research into the matter of the Occupant.

  The door has been opened.

  It's already too late.

  If Corvine had had some kind of silver bullet hidden in all of those papers, certainly he'd have used it in '89, when he'd realized what he'd let out into the world. What we were likely to find in all of that material were nothing more than his hand-written notes, cryptic chemical formulas and some of the obscure newspaper clippings he'd collected over the years in trying to puzzle out the Occupant's riddles.

  “We could have a look at it,” replied Jake. “Maybe he mentioned Milsbourne somewhere in there. It's worth a shot, isn't it?”

  I conceded he was right and took up the entire load of Corvine's crumpled research in two teeming armfuls. Pouring half of the stuff into Jake's lap, I set about flipping through books and the contents of several folders. “Look out for mentions of Milsbourne. If anything else catches your eye, let me know. I'm not certain what to look for.”

  The folder I'd chosen was packed with news clippings. I turned past the one mentioning the comet, an obituary for his wife and daughter, and scanned the headlines for anything relevant to the State of Michigan.

  Jake was some time in digging into his load. He'd happened upon the sequence of sketches, and by the time he'd flipped to the last, where Enid had rendered it with gruesome clarity, he looked a little queasy. Cracking open a book on neuroscience, he flipped the pages quickly, reading the chapter headings and then tossing it aside. “There's so much... there could be stuff hidden in any of these books.”

  I ignored him, focused on my own reading. I studied a book on sensory deprivation techniques that'd been thoroughly dogeared by the professor, and then moved onto a pamphlet describing some of the designer drugs coming out of Europe in the 60's. None of that mattered to me. Corvine's experiments and these obscure drugs had allowed the Occupant into the world, but as Jane had told me, the drugs didn't matter anymore. The Occupant was a physical—or, at least not fully incorporeal—thing now and had entered Elizabeth's body without the aid of drugs or hours-long torture sessions.

  We managed to skim through all of the written material but came away with it more than an hour later with nothing but headaches. I was pretty sure I'd read enough science that day to host my own TED Talk, but I hadn't come away with anything referencing Michigan. Maybe Corvine hadn't taken notes on that, or else they were elsewhere. Lost. Destroyed. Anyhow, the reasons behind his interest in Milsbourne remained a mystery to us.

  Jake helped me return all of the junk to the trunk. “What about the tapes?” he asked.

  “I listened to most of them while I was up there. They're full of dictations and short recordings from his sessions with Jane, his niece. Creepy and hard to listen to, but there's nothing about Milsbourne on them that I'm aware of. Maybe we'll try listening to the rest later on, but for right now I think we're going to have to look elsewhere to crack this nut.”

  Jake was looking down at something, the blueprints for the massive sub-cellar chamber we'd wandered into back at Chaythe Asylum. “Why's that in here? Did Corvine design that room or something?”

  “Dunno,” I replied. “Maybe he was an architect, too. He probably had that room dug into the foundation to his specifications, but Lord knows why. If you want to ask him, maybe we can swing by his cabin up north and find his body. He's buried out in the woods, somewhere. He may not be feeling too talkative, though.”

  Jake rolled his eyes. My attempt at levity wasn't winning me any points. He closed the trunk and climbed back inside. “Well, what now?”

  23

  Before we could head to the mysterious town of Milsbourne, we needed to find out where the hell it was located. Unable to find any mention of the place online and having exhausted the university library's database, I decided the next best thing would be to turn to some kind of expert on local history. If we could contact someone who knew a thing or two about the history of Michigan, or who was in possession of some old maps that included the town, then we'd be in business.

  Trouble was, I didn't know anyone who fit the bill.

  Sitting in the car and considering my options, I realized there was someone who might be able to help, though I wasn't too keen on calling him. My office-mate, Phil, the tenure-track English professor with a notoriously flaky scalp and a punishing case of halitosis was my best bet. Though he wouldn't know a lick about the history of Michigan, I felt confident that he could refer me to someone who did. He'd been at the univ
ersity about five years and knew a great many tenure-track professors in other departments. Rather than cold-calling everyone I could find in the university's directory, I wagered that asking Phil would be a better use of our time.

  I asked Jake to keep quiet and dialed Phil. Despite the urgency of our situation, a part of me hoped he wouldn't pick up. I didn't want to hear his voice, with its patronizing tone. I didn't want to have to make several minutes of small-talk with him, or hear about how his homely children were enjoying their spring break.

  But he picked up all the same. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Phil. I'm sorry to bug you, this is Stephen.”

  The patronizing, overly-courteous tone came right on cue. “Oh, Stephen, it's wonderful to hear from you. How're you doing, man? Holding up well over the break, I hope? I've just been catching up on some lawn work today. Let me tell you, trimming the hedges over here is a full day's work. It doesn't seem that way, but when you actually get out there with the hedge trimmer and hook it up with all of the extension cords, it's beastly. Jill and I were thinking about painting the back deck, too. It's holding up pretty well. The people who owned his house before us installed it and they really seemed to know what they were doing. It's solidly built, but they used a light finish on it and Jill has hounded me for years to throw on something a little darker. Maybe a burnt sepia, you know? Or, my personal favorite, teak. I don't know about you, but I'm ready to get back to the office life! When I have so much time off I find myself marveling at all of the little things that accumulate around the homestead that need done. There's a crack in the driveway, I've noticed, and we're thinking of having it filled in—”

  I'll save you the rest. Suffice it to say he rambled on about painting shutters and an argument he'd had with a waiter at a local steakhouse—“When a man asks for a well-done steak, that means no pink at all, am I right?”—before finally shutting up and allowing me to mention the reason for my call.

  “Listen, Phil, I was hoping you might be able to help me with something. I'm looking for someone who might know a thing or two about Michigan—its history. There's a particular mining town I want to know some things about, and I haven't been able to find anything on the web, or at the campus library. Anyone at the university you could refer me to?”

  He paused to think. In the background, I heard his wife, Jill—a stern and doughy-faced woman I'd seen in photographs back at the office—flipping through a Pier One catalog and asking him what he thought about a chaise lounge. When he finally responded, he didn't give me a name, but rather took to snooping, as was his wont. “Say, what is it you need to learn about Michigan for?” he asked.

  I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, but held my tongue. Providing I survived this little excursion over the break, I'd still be sharing an office with his sorry ass upon our return to work on the 8th. I threw together a quick lie and prayed he'd get on with it. “It's a genealogical thing. Turns out I've got some family up there, kind of near the U.P., and I want to know more about the area. I've hit a dead-end, though.”

  This was good enough for Phil, who replied, “Oh, right, right. OK, then. You know, I think I might know a guy. He's in our history department. His specialty is actually Asian studies—Professor John Prince—but he's done a lot of stuff about the Midwest, too. I think he's published in a bunch of journals. If anyone would know about Michigan, it'd be him.”

  “Excellent!” I scrawled the name on the back of my hand with ballpoint. “Any chance you could give me his number?”

  “Oh, sure. John and I have been friends for a few years now. He and his wife, Diane, come over every now and then for drinks, and let me tell you, John makes a mean mojito. You ever had a good mojito? It takes some muscle, and a good mortar and pestle, to really extract the essence of the mint. But boy, when you do, it's transcendent. Nothing like a mojito with a steak—well-done, of course—and a side of grilled corn. That's another thing about that steakhouse—they didn't offer corn! And I was like, 'Hello? No corn? What kind of business are you running here?' And then there's—”

  I interrupted as politely as I could. “Right, so I take it John lives in Moorlake?”

  “Uh, yeah. That's right. I could give you his number, if you like. Just let him know I gave it to you. He's a good guy, very knowledgable.”

  Phil was set to launch into another tangent, but I cut him short. When he gave me John Prince's number, I gave as hasty a goodbye as I could get away with, agreed that I couldn't wait to “hang out” with him at the office again, and cut the line.

  “What took so long?” asked Jake. “Sounded like a real chatty Cathy.”

  “He is,” I replied. Patting the back of my hand, which was covered in writing now, I grinned. “But eventually he did give me what I was looking for. There's a professor he's acquainted with that knows a thing or two about the Midwest. Maybe he can help us.” I dialed Prince's number and took a deep breath.

  Someone picked up on the second ring. “Hello?” The voice was a little older than I had expected, and was tinged with caution.

  “Hi, is this John Prince?” I asked.

  A pause. “If you're calling about lowering my interest rate again, I'm not interested and I want off of your damn list,” blurted the man.

  The poor guy had probably been pushed to the edge by one too many robocalls. “No!” I exclaimed, “I'm not selling anything. My name is Professor Stephen Barlow. I'm in the English department at Moorlake U.”

  This seemed to lower his guard somewhat, though he was still cautious. It wasn't until I mentioned I'd been sent to him by Phil that he warmed up. “Oh, I see, yes. If you're a friend of Phil's, then you check out just fine. What is it I can help you with?”

  Ordinarily I'd have apologized for bothering him over the break, would have asked if this was a good time—whether I should call him back or wait until he had scheduled office hours. But time was of the essence and I got straight to the point. “Listen, professor, I don't want to take up too much of your time, however I've got a pressing item on my plate that I think—hope—you may be able to help me with. I understand you're familiar with the history of the Midwest. Do you know a lot about historical Michigan?”

  Professor Prince grunted in the affirmative. “Well, yes, I'm pretty well-read on Michigan, as it happens. What is it you need to know? I find it hard to believe that anyone should have a 'pressing' need for historical facts, but I'll see if I can't be of assistance.”

  “I'm looking for information related to a place. I don't know much about it. It's in Michigan, and the internet has given me nothing to work with. It's a place called 'Milsbourne'. Have you heard of it?”

  Prince's reaction struck me as very odd. He started to chuckle.

  I held my breath, my confusion mounting. What was so damn funny?

  “Is that what this is about?” asked Prince. When I said nothing, he cut his laughter short. “I happen to know a thing or two about the town of Milsbourne, Michigan, yes. I'll be happy to tell you what I know—all there is to know without risking one's sanity—if you'd be so kind as to visit me at home. You've caught me at a good time. My wife has gone on a shopping trip with some friends of hers and I was planning on lazing around today.”

  I was unnerved by his response. To hear a learned man talk about a town in that way made me uncomfortable despite everything I'd been through in the past several days. I told him that I, too, was free, and he offered me his home address. It turned out to be a few miles from campus on the fringe of Moorlake, in an area where the houses were quite new and there was some distance between them. I thanked him, told him I'd be there within the hour, and then hung up.

  “We're a-go?” asked Jake.

  I nodded. “Yeah. We're going deeper into the rabbit hole,” I said. “And if this guy's reaction is any indication, I've got a bad feeling about what's to come.”

  24

  Professor John Prince had a lovely home, but if we're being honest I can't remember a whole lot about it. Except for hi
s study, where we spent the bulk of our time, I don't recall much about the place. My thoughts were too focused on the matter at hand; that is, learning more about the mysterious town of Milsbourne, which had seemingly been dropped from maps and history books.

  Prince was a man of fifty-odd years. Maybe sixty. He had a long nose and short, cropped hair that he'd dyed dark brown in an effort to look more youthful. However, his grey roots were showing, which betrayed the illusion. Dressed in a black T-shirt and a pair of tan cargo shorts, he invited us inside, offered the two of us a glass of sparkling mineral water, and led us to his study. It was a small room, its walls lined in bookcases. There was a handsome desk across from the door, and everything within was rather neat and orderly. The window beside his desk looked out upon the garden in the back yard, and made for lovely scenery. I was a little envious.

  Taking a seat behind his desk and folding his hands, he took a sip of water and donned a thin smile. “So, do I understand you correctly? You've come to learn about Milsbourne, have you?” He clicked his tongue. “Great minds have been corrupted in search of that place.” His gaze grew distant for a moment before he went on. “What do you want to know?”

  “I want to know everything you can tell me about it,” I said. “Milsbourne turned up in some other research I'm doing and I suspect that the answer to a lot of my problems waits for me there.” It wasn't so far from the truth, though no one could say for certain what awaited us there. Rather than an “answer to a lot of my problems”, I was just as likely to find death incarnate. The Occupant.

  From one of the many shelves our host produced a cardboard tube, and from this he pulled a map—frayed on the edges and weathered. It looked very old, and reeked of antiquity. Spreading it out on his desk and putting on a pair of reading glasses, he cleared his throat and ran his pointer finger across the surface of the map until he zeroed in on the area he sought. “As best as I can tell, Milsbourne is located within a few miles of this spot.” His fingertip was centered on a point in the middle of the Hiawatha National Forest. I leaned in, asked him for more specifics, and he was able to give me geographical coordinates without too much difficulty. “Though why anyone should wish to travel there is a curiosity of mine...”