Page 27 of Signs and Wonders

“I kept digging, off the clock. I found details that didn’t make sense, and the way the police and local FBSI handled the situations, it seemed clear to me that they’d been told to either ignore or bury the cases.”

“Tell us more,” Seth encouraged.

“I grew up in West Virginia. Everyone knows corruption reaches high and runs deep, especially when it comes to protecting the mining companies. But the things I kept stumbling onto—or getting visions about—weren’t linked to the mines. They weren’t even connected to the main political families in the states, the ones who are guaranteed to never get a speeding ticket and slither out of pretty much everything except maybe shooting someone on live television,” Drake said.

“I kept digging, and for the camp and the resort, I found a weird chain of traveling preachers and bogus non-profits who didn’t just dodge taxes and flim-flam the flock. People connected to them died or went missing more than normal for anyone who isn’t in a cartel or the Mafia.”

“And your boss still wouldn’t listen?” Seth asked.

Drake shook his head. “By that time, I didn’t even try. If he wasn’t on the take, he’d been threatened. I promised myself I would figure this out and close it down—and then leave town.”

“I’m guessing that Fletcher Swain came up?” Brent ventured.

“More than once. No matter what thread I traced, if I went far enough, there was a connection to Swain. Not just over decades but going back decades under different names. I’d already suspected he was a witch, but the more bodies piled up, I knew there was something seriously bad going on,” Drake said.

Cars honked in the parking lot and then raised voices argued, and their conversation stopped amid the noise. Doors slammed, then tires squealed as someone drove away.

“Seth and I have been out to the camp,” Evan said, picking up the discussion again. “But what about the resort? Other than that, the holding group that bought it has ties to Swain, and he holds his fancy wellness seminars there.”

Travis’s phone message chimed, and he went to the door to bring in two large pepperoni pizzas and sodas that had been dropped off. They took a break to dig in, making short work of the food. Brent cleared away the empty boxes, and everyone grabbed new drinks.

Drake took a long sip from his soda. “The Mountain Laurel Lodge has an interesting history, like something out of a horror movie. Several owners were financially ruined because they couldn’t make a go of it, more than one murder took place there, and the place has had a legitimate reputation for being haunted since it was built.”

“We heard some stories about the haunts from Cameron’s boyfriend, who worked there briefly,” Seth said. “What did you dig up?”

“The first owner bought the land and built the Mountain Laurel Lodge right after the Second World War—before the Quiet Zone was established,” Drake explained. “Since he envisioned a place where people could get away from it all—and given the state of technology back then—the Quiet Zone restrictions didn’t make a big difference for him when they were finally implemented.”

Drake paused to take a few bites of pizza and wiped the sauce off his lips.“The construction was snakebit from the start. On-the-job injuries when the place was being built, plus at least one death—maybe more that got covered up. Now and then, a worker—and sometimes a guest—went missing. Rumors went around that the owner had been a hitman for the Mob and that the ghosts of the people he killed haunted him. Guests claimed to see strange things. Then the owner fell from his balcony and died. It was ruled an accident, but looking at the reports, no real investigation was done. They just wanted to close the case.

“The Mountain Laurel Lodge changed hands a couple of times and tried to re-brand as a family destination and then as a lovers’ getaway, but once the Quiet Zone went in, developers got scared off. It sat empty for several years—until the same non-profit that owned Camp Morning Glory bought it and turned it into Summit.” Drake paused and returned to the pizza, eating fast like he was famished.

“So real ghosts, some scandals, and the chance to pick up the land at a distressed price,” Brent summarized.

“Yep,” Drake replied. “Not all that strange for West Virginia, really. Everything’s haunted, and there are scandals galore.”

Travis leaned forward. “How about the Hub?

“That was definitely on the official ‘don’t touch’ list,” Drake said. “So of course…”

“You headed right for it.” Brent grinned.

“Am I that predictable?”

“Yes,” Brent replied.

“Guilty as charged.” Drake didn’t look at all remorseful. “Technically, the Hub is a call center and server farm. On the surface, it’s squeaky clean. It handles fundraising calls for local charities, political calls for both parties, and emergency messaging for weather alerts.”

“But—” Evan prompted.

“Several workers were reported missing by their families and never found. No one in the local police or FBSI seemed overly worried. There have been five confirmed deaths—not counting the missing people—among Hub managers and employees. They are what I’d deem suspicious—one-car accidents, fall from a balcony, drowned alone at a lake—that sort of thing. No apparent witnesses. The families reported the deaths and asked for law enforcement to look into them. The cases were closed almost immediately, with bullshit notes saying there was nothing unusual.”

“Yeah, that’s not strange at all,” Seth muttered.

“Over the last year, we’ve had an increase in reports of fraud,” Drake went on. “Identity theft, impersonation, even deep-fake porn. Before I got transferred here, I worked on money laundering and phishing cases, so whenever a place like the Hub draws attention for one set of possible crimes, I look for the whole enchilada. And then I got told to leave it alone.”

“Did they give you a reason?”

Drake snorted. “You mean aside from large campaign contributions to all the right people? No. Gobbledygook about how the Hub is a major employer, important to the tax base, an example of how the state is embracing technology, yada, yada, yada.”

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