Missing in Michigan Read online

  According to the ghost, her teenage son, Josh, disappeared last year and was never found. This would certainly be tragic enough to make her get stuck, but it’s only the beginning of the story.

  If she can be believed, and Leslie seemed to think she’s at least mostly reliable, there have been no fewer than twelve similar disappearances within the past decade. Mrs. Felton claims none of them have been found. Disturbingly, she thinks that’s at least partially because no one from the local police department will follow up on any of the cases.

  Could it be true? Are there twelve missing teens who have no one but a ghost wanting to investigate their whereabouts? I’ve helped spirits resolve all sorts of issues, but a missing person case may be beyond my capacity. Of course, if I don’t at least attempt to do this, her spirit will remain mired in the massage studio. And how will I ever sleep again knowing someone is missing and I did nothing to help bring him home? Speaking of which, the hotel bed is beckoning to me.

  “What am I getting myself into this time?” I ask the bathroom mirror. It doesn’t respond. The bags underneath my tired blue eyes make it clear that any further questions need to wait until the morning.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Thank you for meeting me, Leslie.”

  She glances nervously around the local coffee shop that’s draped in early morning sunlight. “Yeah, of course. But if you don’t mind my asking, why are we here instead of the studio?”

  “I need to gather some more information about Mrs. Felton first.” I see impatience cross her features, and I prepare for her angst.

  “But I thought you were going to get rid of her! How long does it take?”

  “Leslie, I need you to prepare yourself for the long haul. This isn’t as simple as exterminating bugs. She won’t leave, she can’t leave, until she’s gotten closure. And this case is way more difficult than most of them. Speaking of which, what can you tell me about her son?”

  A deep sigh moves her entire upper frame. “Okay, fine. Her son? He disappeared, what, eleven months ago now? Mrs. Felton acts like he’s a young victim or something like that. Truth be told, though, he was a bit of a wild card. Sixteen years old and always looking to raise a little hell. She thinks the cops don’t care, but it’s not that. They’re pretty sure he took off on his own accord, you know what I mean?”

  “Is that what you believe?”

  “Well, no. I mean... look, I’m not sure, all right? I know everything Mrs. Felton used to talk about while she was on my table, and it does seem strange that so many teens have up and disappeared. Of course, most kids hate living at home, right? I know I did.”

  My childhood wasn’t exactly sweetness and roses, so I nod along wearily.

  Leslie says, “You hear stuff, though. There’s a lot of conspiracy theories in this town, although most people won’t admit to believing in any of them during the light of day.”

  “Will you give me an example?”

  She squirms in her seat. I can tell this is a touchy subject, so I force myself to push past my boundaries. I lie my hand gently on top of hers. “Please? This could be important.”

  She glances around to see if anyone is listening, then drops her voice so low I can barely make it out. “There’s a rumor that the twelve teens missing from this area are part of a bigger missing persons’ ring. Kids from all over the U.P. might be part of it.”

  “Do the rumors indicate what’s happening?”

  She glances from side to side again, leans in close across the table, and whispers, “Some say the government is conducting secret experiments on Isle Royale. Others think it’s aliens. It could be a cult, too. And then... no, that’s too crazy, even for us Yoopers.”

  “Believe me when I say nothing is too crazy.” I hope she’ll bite at my latest invitation to spill her guts. Everyone wants to tell their story, but some need more prodding than others. When it comes to gossip, almost no one can resist blabbing.

  “This stays between us?”

  I catch her eyes with mine and nod.

  A sigh so deep it seems theatrical pushes past her cherry red lips. “Okay, but you’re going to think we’re all stupid hicks or something. Which we’re not! Some - and not me, mind you - believe the ancient wendigos have returned to this land and they’re feeding on the missing.”

  I consult my internal library of the paranormal and occult, but my card catalog turns up blank. “I’m sorry, what’s a wendigo?”

  “Oh hell, I don’t know how to explain this to you. It’s just an ancient Native American legend, okay? They’re a myth, like werewolves and mermaids.”

  “I see. Do you know which theory Mrs. Felton believed?”

  “A combination of them all, if you can believe that hot mess. Me? I think they’re getting high and leaving town. End of story.”

  “Are there any big local drug pushers, then?” I ask.

  Her face turns ashen. “What are you, crazy? This is the U.P. and there’s nothing to do here. Of course, there’s drugs everywhere! But the last thing you should do is go looking for a drug dealer. Unless you’re into meth?”

  I shake my head, and I can see from her agitated countenance that our conversation has hit a stopping point. “Thank you very much for your time, Leslie.”

  I slap a tip on the table and rise to leave. Her hand clamps onto my lower arm, and I turn back toward her in surprise.

  “When will Mrs. Felton be gone?”

  “As soon as she gets some closure. Don’t worry, I’ll be stopping by this afternoon to chat with her again. You should prepare yourself, though.”

  “For what?” she asks.

  I shift legs and pray she’ll let my arm go soon. “She might not leave until we figure out what happened to her son.”

  She loses her grip, and I pull away. The hopelessness and anxiety filling her eyes will haunt me all day long.

  Chapter Four

  I told Leslie not to discount the possibility of something strange, but honestly, I can’t wrap my head around the idea of wendigos. I’ve spent the past hour on my smartphone learning about the mythical creatures, and the entire idea of them being real seems ludicrous.

  “You thought the same thing about ghosts once,” an internal voice reminds me.

  I decide to answer aloud. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean monsters are real. Ghosts are, at their core, human. This is something else entirely.”

  An alarm sounds on my phone. It’s time to go for my next meeting with Mrs. Felton. I have high hopes for a more productive session and plenty of questions to ask.

  It only takes five minutes to get to Leslie’s studio. As she lets me in, I can see she’s quickly losing her appetite for all of this. If I’m going to help Mrs. Felton - and if I have any chance of recouping some of my trip expenses - I’m going to need to speed up the timeline.

  “Hello? Mrs. Felton?”

  A noxious mixture of cloyingly sweet perfume and human suffering rains down on the room as she materializes. My lungs and nose scream for relief, but I know I have to push forward as if nothing is wrong.

  “Hello, dear,” she says.

  “Mrs. Felton, is it okay if I ask you a few more questions?”

  “You can ask me anything if it’ll lead to my son. You are going to look for him, right?”

  The combination of sadness and hopefulness makes it hard to respond in any way other than the affirmative, so I do.

  “Wonderful!”

  She beams at me, and I begin to realize exactly how different she is. I’ve never encountered another ghost who didn’t seem cold, no matter how nice the person beneath had been. Despite everything she’s been through, Mrs. Felton’s humanity still overflows from her apparitional frame.

  “Leslie filled me in a bit today...” She interrupts with an eye-roll that’s seriously impressive for someone with no eyes.

  “And what did she say? That he was a no-good drug addict who took off on his beloved mama? Or maybe that aliens took him? Leslie is a good massage therapist, but sh
e’s not the kindest, nor the smartest.”

  “She mentioned those theories, yes, among others. Some were more colorful than others. And for what it’s worth, I do think she’s genuinely trying to help you. Even if doing so will help herself, too.”

  “I see. And by colorful, you must mean... creatures that can’t possibly exist and government experiments?”

  I nod in agreement. She pauses to reflect on this before continuing. “I tried every trail, Alex, including the crazy ones. And they led me nowhere.”

  Her shoulders hitch, and I’m amazed to see she’s actually crying. And I don’t mean simulating the act of crying. Tears - real ones - are piling up on the carpet. It’s as if her desire to solve her son’s disappearance is so strong that she’s physically straddling both states of being: life and death.

  “Where should I start, Mrs. Felton?”

  “Maybe try asking the worthless sheriff when he’s going to do his job.” Anger seeps into the room, and I remind myself even the nicest spirit in the world has the potential to cause great harm.

  “I’ll do that,” I say. “Now, I think it’s best if I let you have some privacy. I’ll be back tomorrow.” I back out of the room, keeping my eyes on her the entire way. I needn’t have worried, though, as her anger dissipates almost instantly and sadness returns to fill its place.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  I look up at the oddly-shaped, terra-cotta brick building and chuckle when I see the sign: City Hall. In a town this small, it’s not surprising the police station and local government share the same building. Still, this particular structure is a throwback to at least the 1920s. I half expect to see an outdated police van drive by with an officer hanging on to the back. I hurry toward the door as a stiff, cold breeze comes off the lake.

  “Can I help you?” The acerbic manner in which this question is uttered by the woman in her mid-forties sitting behind the desk suggests she would rather be anywhere else than here.

  “Yes, thank you. I’d like to speak to the sheriff, please.” I smile, but not too big. I have a feeling showing too many teeth would remind the desk clerk how much she hates her job.

  She lifts her half-glasses up and peers at me through them. “What’s this in regards to?”

  The rote question comes from a script she could probably recite in her sleep. The curiosity implied within her words doesn’t reflect on her face, and I know she won’t stand in my way if I play this right.

  “I’m writing a police procedural novel set in a small town like this. I was hoping to interview him, if he’s got a minute.”

  The first hint of mirthfulness tickles the wrinkled corners of her mouth and she issues one dry laugh. “Oh, he’s got time, all right. And enough pride to talk to you all day long. A little tip, though, between us girls? He’s a glory hog, like all male cops. If you want full cooperation, you’d best tell him his name will end up in the book.”

  That news isn’t a surprise, but her deigning to string so many words together at once? That’s truly shocking.

  “I’ll do that, thank you. And m’am? Can I ask your name?”

  “Why?” She bristles and the deep freeze seeps back in.

  “It’s just you’ve been so helpful and all, and I want to mention you by name in the acknowledgments.”

  Her heart melts. “Why isn’t that just the nicest... I tell you what, let me get you some coffee.”

  She moves through the office with a flurry of activity I would have thought impossible. The next thing I know, a coffee cup is warming my hands and she’s handing me a business card with her name on it. Sally Jensen.

  “Thank you, Ms. Jenson!”

  “Oh, call me Sally! Everyone does,” she beams. “I’ll let the sheriff know you’re coming.” With what I can only believe is an uncharacteristic movement, she winks at me as she picks up the phone.

  I feel badly about lying to her; she so clearly needs someone to recognize her in even the most meager way. Maybe I’ll write a book just to put her name in it.

  “Sheriff Hambler will see you now.” She gestures toward the left. “Take those stairs to the top, then turn right. His office is at the end of the hall. Have fun!”

  As I walk up the stairs, I hear her speak into the phone receiver again. “You’ll never believe it! Our small town...” If I accomplish nothing else today, at least I gave her something to smile about.

  I walk into the sheriff’s office, and he isn’t at all what I expected. In my line of work, it’s not unusual to have run-ins with local law enforcement. Experience has taught me most sheriffs in towns like this sit behind a desk all day, and this sedentary lifestyle creates a paunch in their stomach. But not this guy.

  Sheriff Hambler is wiry and energetic. I don’t see any sign of doughnuts, either. Looking at his thin frame, I wouldn’t be surprised if none of those sugary delights has ever passed his lips.

  “You must be Mrs. Bentley?” he asks.

  “Yeah, um, no. I mean, it’s Ms. Bentley, actually. But you can call me Alex?” The lilting tone of my voice surprises me, as does my instant recognition that the sheriff isn’t wearing a wedding ring.

  “Ms. Bentley? I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.” He looks me up and down like a dying man choosing his last meal. My skin burns under the heat of his stare. Things have taken a turn for the unexpected, and I haven’t even asked him any questions yet.

  I clear my throat in a bid to stall for a few seconds so I can regain my composure. His deep brown eyes are slightly intoxicating, but there’s also something predatory in them. I open my mouth, but before any words can slip out, he takes the lead. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather discuss this over dinner this evening? My name’s Chad, by the way.”

  I stumble for words. “Um, uh, that’s nice of you, sheriff. C-Chad.” My words speed up as if I’m trying to win a verbal race. “M-maybe we could get started now, though? And see how things go?” I sound like a blubbering idiot. I haven’t noticed another person in this way for so long that I can’t quite remember how to string together a normal, coherent sentence.

  He’s unfazed by my nervousness. If anything, it excites him more. “All right, Ms. Bentley. Alex.” He gestures toward a chair, and I sit down.

  I can’t believe something as inconvenient as lust has decided to rear its ugly head right now. I have several good reasons for not dating, but they all seem to have slipped my mind. His cologne wafts toward me, and I allow myself the slightest hint of a daydream. Let’s just say kissing is involved.

  He stares at me with expectation, and I realize I haven’t said anything for at least thirty seconds. “Okay, so I’m writing a police procedural?” Why can’t I stop making everything sound like a question? “It’s set in a small town, and I thought, who better to go to than the sheriff of a small town?”

  Sheriff Hambler’s grin turns from intrigued to cocky. “Well, you’ve come to the right place.” He gestures toward numerous awards, medals, and newspaper clippings that decorate his office. I peruse them for a moment, and one thing becomes clear; this is a police officer who gets results. So why hasn’t he found Mrs. Felton’s son?

  “So, in this story, a child has been abducted. Or that’s what most people think, anyway. There’s a lot of crazy gossip, though.”

  He laughs, and says, “Yup, that sounds about right.”

  “I’m hoping you can walk me through the typical procedure for handling a case of this nature in a small town that doesn’t have a lot of resources?” The lilt is back. Great. I hope he doesn’t notice that my face is getting red again.

  “Well, that depends.”

  “On what?”

  “The age of the victim, how long ago he disappeared, and whether or not we have any viable suspects. The victim’s lifestyle would also be analyzed, of course. You’d be surprised how many so-called abduction cases end with the missing person being found living a new life a few towns over.”

  “Wow, people really do that?” I twirl my black hair between two fingers.
This is usually a disarming technique, but I’m alarmed by how natural it suddenly seems.

  He leans toward me and locks my eyes with his intensity. “Oh, yes. More than half those cases aren’t a crime at all. Unless it’s a crime to want to reinvent yourself, that is.”

  Most of the questions in my head become a jumbled mess. Why now? I need to get a hold of myself before I completely blow this opportunity. I close my eyes for a second and take a deep, cleansing breath. If he notices, he doesn’t point it out.

  “You mentioned it being normal for there to be a lot of conspiracy theories? How do you go about determining what’s worth investigating and what’s not?”

  “It’s simple, really. Anything that involves aliens or government coverups isn’t worth my time. I follow up on pretty much anything else.”

  I rush forward foolheartedly. “Anything else? Even if, I don’t know, let’s say people claim a monster was involved.” I laugh to show how crazy I think this sounds. He joins me, but his eyes turn hard.

  “I’d probably advise those people to stop drinking. Or to check themselves into the looney bin.”

  I jot a few notes down, and he eyes me suspiciously. I know I shouldn’t, but I plunge forward anyway. “Say, have you ever actually dealt with something like that?”

  “Ms. Bentley,” he begins. Ouch. Ms. Bentley? “I don’t know who put you up to this, but I can assure you there’s no such thing as a wendigo.”

  I feign ignorance. “A wendi what?”

  He considers my innocent tone. “What made you choose Munising? Or the U.P. at all?”

  “Oh, I just love it up here, that’s why! I’m from Detroit, and as a kid, we used to come up here every summer.” This is a blatant lie, and I hope he’s not a good enough cop to pick up on it. “I could have chosen any small town in America, but why not come back to a place with so many fond memories, you know?”

  “I’m going to give you a tip, Ms. Bentley. People ‘round these parts don’t take too kindly to big city strangers asking a bunch of nosy questions. And speaking of which, no, there aren’t any cases like those you described. Some of the town drunkards do bring up the wendigo myth whenever there’s something they can’t explain, but that’s just damn foolishness.”