Chapter 3: Swamp Hunt

Cranberry Hollow Inn. April 8, 2005. Friday evening.

Still no change. Janet gave a frustrated sigh. She'd hoped Mozzie would improve once Neal and Peter arrived, but, if anything, his condition had grown worse.

At the moment, he and several other men were watching Bonanza reruns. Janet had slipped out of the room—not that Mozzie would notice she'd left—and was having a glass of wine by herself in the parlor. She'd designed costumes for stage productions on a wide variety of subjects, but never for a Theater of the Absurd performance like this one.

Janet pulled out a sketchpad from her bag and began drawing. Treat this as an Ionesco play, she told herself gloomily. What costumes would you design? The thought was an intriguing one and soon she was absorbed in sketching ideas. She'd long thought about designing a costume for Mozzie. This was her chance.

"Mind if I join you?"

She looked up to see Chloe standing in front of her. "I could use the company," Janet said gratefully and moved an embroidered cushion aside so Chloe could sit next to her. "Would you like some wine?"

"Thanks, but I'm more of a beer drinker. I may go to the roadhouse in a little while. I just finished writing a user guide and feel like celebrating." She glanced over at Janet's drawings. "I envy you being able to support yourself with what you're passionate about."

"Don't you make enough from your novels to work on them full time?"

She shook her head glumly. "Maybe someday, but in the meantime, I'm doomed to write about the glories of user controls." Chloe hesitated for a moment. "I saw you talking to a group of men. One of them—Dean—came over to talk with me for a few minutes. Do you know much about him?"

"Not really. I only met him today."

"Janet! I need your help!" Viola Palmer, the innkeeper, came running into the parlor. "Mozzie's trying to tear down the curtains to make lariats."

Janet sighed and gulped down the last of her wine. Making her apologies to Chloe, she raced off to save the inn's curtains. Mozzie was so going to owe her.

#

A few beers. Some poker. Dean was feeling good. He could tell Sam was getting antsy to get back to his research. He kept telling the dude to lighten up. Neal to his credit appeared to have the same thought. He'd even gotten Sam to laugh some.

Sam was a worry. He was taking forever to get over his girlfriend. Not that Dean was unsympathetic—watching your girl spontaneously combust and be burned to death could set any dude off his game. And the Yellow-Eyed Demon still gave Sam nightmares, no matter how he tried to disguise it. But just because they dealt with death and destruction on a daily basis didn't mean a guy couldn't have a little fun. Even Peter had unbent and was matching Dean with beers.

But Janet's call to Neal put an end to the poker. Supposedly she was having a tough time controlling Mozzie who was trying to perform lasso tricks. Neal offered to handle it, and that was fine with Dean. There was still a chance Chloe could show up. He was staying put.

Sam offered to go back with Neal. Peter showed no inclination to leave. He seemed to think Dean bore watching. Still, as long as the guy continued to buy the beer, Dean didn't mind hanging out with him.

Chloe strolled in about fifteen minutes later. She was in the same leather mini-skirt and sweater. Dean stood up, using the excuse that he needed to finish the interview. Peter's eye-rolling could be as annoying as Sam's and was just as non-effective.

A few minutes later, he and Chloe were sitting at a corner table with their beer. Chalk up another point in her favor—the chick liked beer. He was happily ignoring the steely-eyed surveillance technique of Peter Burke.

"How'd you wind up in a sleepy town like Buttonwood?" Dean asked.

"I'm a technical writer," she replied. "Zoe the Demon Slayer makes enough to keep Izzy running, but not enough for me to live on."

"Izzy?"

"That's my car. Izzy's short for Isabelle. She and I have been together for quite a while. You may have seen her. She's the black Mustang at the inn."

"That's your car?" The gods were smiling at him. "I parked Baby next to her. The '67 Impala. Baby and I have racked up quite a few adventures."

Chloe gave him an admiring look. "I bet you have. Izzy and I are also road warriors. I freelance so I can pick my jobs. I figure if I have to do technical writing, at least I can write in a charming atmosphere so I usually stay at country inns."

"My brother and I freelance too."

"What kind of work?"

"It's a family-run business. We're investigators."

"So you're a private detective? A traveling Sam Spade?"

"Dean Spade, that's me. My brother's Sam." This was going well. Chloe looked intrigued. Dean noticed Peter was moving among the tables, talking with customers. Good. He needed practice in his interviewing technique. Dean was going to focus on the only person he was interested in.

He liked to start slow and then gradually rev up the engine. He asked her about her stories, focusing on the love connection between Ravensword and Zoe. Her descriptions of demons were laughable, but no need to point that out. He'd certainly been able to overlook her wild fantasies in favor of the steamy parts.

They were just getting to the good stuff when Peter showed up at their table. "Later," Dean said, dismissing him with a wave of his hand.

"No, now," Peter insisted. "The woman who just walked in said she saw several will-o'-wisps moving toward the roadhouse. We should check them out."

"I've heard they're unusually abundant this spring," Chloe said, "but I haven't had a chance to see them. Let's go!"

Hey, if Chloe were interested, he could go along. When they walked outside, a light ground fog had formed. Kinda spooky. Chloe might feel the need for a protector.

"There's one by the maple tree," Peter said, pointing in its direction.

Sure enough, about fifteen feet away a soccer ball-sized globe of pale blue gas was hovering next to the tree. Glancing around, Dean saw a couple of others further in the distance. If he'd been by himself, he would have gone to Baby, gotten out his gun, and shot it with salt, but he couldn't risk it with others present.

"You better go inside," he muttered to Chloe. "It may be hostile."

She shot him an incredulous look. "Like I'm supposed to be scared of a blue bubble? Please. This is Zoe the Demon Slayer you're talking to."

Amateurs, Dean grumbled to himself. Where was Sam when he needed him? Still, powder-blue balls of swamp gas barely registered on his threat-ometer.

"It's approaching," Peter warned in a low voice. He drew his weapon. Dean noticed Chloe raising her eyebrows at that. Damn. He knew he should have gotten out his shotgun. "Just a precaution," Peter added.

The will-o'-wisp floated closer and closer. . .

#

"It passed directly over our heads and then disappeared over the roof of the roadhouse," Peter said. "Neal, it was the weirdest thing. At one point, it dipped down so low I thought it would smack me in the face."

When Peter returned to the inn, Neal was having a nightcap in the parlor. He figured he'd earned it after his struggles with Mozzie. The will-o'-wisps must have been put on quite a show. Peter was unusually animated as he talked about them. Perhaps a few too many beers?

"We stayed outside a while longer but after that cluster of three, we didn't spot any others," Peter said. "Dean was still hitting on Chloe, and I headed back here. How'd it go with Mozzie?"

"He finally wore himself out. I helped Janet get him to bed. He insisted I read him a bedtime story." Neal sighed deeply at the depths his friend had sunk to. "Fortunately, Janet had borrowed several books from the inn's library. A Campfire for Cowboy Billy is his current favorite."

Peter clasped his shoulder. "We'll figure this out and get him the help he needs." He hesitated for a minute. "You don't happen to know of any mental disorders in his family?"

Neal shook his head. "He was an orphan."

Peter snickered.

Neal looked at him, startled. "There's nothing funny about him being an orphan."

"You're right. I was thinking of Cowboy Billy. Sorry."

Neal shook his head, frustrated. Had Mozzie been afflicted with a syndrome for which there was no cure? Peter could be a little more sympathetic to his plight.

#

"Ow! Stop that!"

Neal rubbed the side of his head and rolled over to view the alarm clock. "Five o'clock in the morning and you want a pillow fight? Seriously?" He turned on the bedside lamp. Peter was standing on top of his bed and preparing to hurl yet another pillow at him. "Don't you dare toss that!" Neal warned.

"Party pooper!" Peter scooped up the pillows and began tossing them at a picture on the wall as if they were basketballs. He then started a running commentary on his basketball expertise, giggling all the while.

Peter never giggled, and Neal couldn't remember a single instance of party pooper ever being part of his vocabulary. He sat up, rested his head on his propped-up elbows, and studied Peter with dismay. Had he caught the dork plague?

When he attempted to confiscate the pillows, Peter began wrestling with him. Finally, in desperation, Neal wheedled, "How about watching some cartoons? You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"The Road Runner?" Peter asked eagerly. "And Wile E. Coyote?"

"Whatever you'd like." He had no idea what might be on but figured it probably didn't matter. He knew Cartoon Network was a channel they could get in their rooms. Janet had already mentioned what a lifesaver it was.

He'd barely settled Peter in front of the TV when Sam called his cell phone. "Neal, I've got a situation here."

#

"Dean's been a jerk, an ass, and yeah, sometimes kind of a goofball but never like this." Sam winced as he poked the scrambled eggs around his plate.

Neal had directed him to bring Dean over to the inn. Fortunately, Dean was somewhat tractable. Now he and Peter were with Mozzie in the TV lounge while Neal, Sam, and Janet had breakfast in the dining room.

Neal assessed the situation as he smeared butter on a hot blueberry muffin. Should he call Peter's wife? How could he explain it to El? He wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't witnessed it.

"When Dean returned last night, he took a shower," Sam said. "He seemed in good spirits, but I didn't think anything about it."

"Anything else?"

"He was singing 'Cecilia' in the shower. Come to think of it, that was weird. Dean never sings Simon and Garfunkel songs." Sam grinned at the memory. "I should have recorded him. I was surprised he knew the words. He was blasting them out so loud I thought we'd get complaints at the racket."

"Cecilia . . . That sounds familiar." Janet considered for a moment then broke into a smile. "He was singing about Chloe! Her pen name is Cecilia Hepburn."

Sam groaned. "Now it makes sense. Dean was hoping to meet up with her last night." He nodded toward the dining room doors. "And look who walked in." Chloe stood at the entrance, waiting to be seated.

"She may have some insights on what happened," Neal speculated. "I'll invite her to join us for breakfast."

Chloe looked half-asleep. She was wearing an oversized sweater over tight jeans and still had bed hair. "I don't often get up in time for breakfast," she admitted when she joined them. "I write at night. It's usually three or four o'clock by the time I go to sleep. Why are all those grown men watching cartoons? Doesn't anyone think that's weird?"

"You don't know?" Janet exclaimed. "How could you not be aware of what's going on?"

Chloe shrugged. "When I go on a writing binge, I tune out the rest of the world." She looked at them with sleepy hazel eyes. "Did I miss something?"

Janet shook her head in frustration. "Oh, nothing much. The men in the town are all turning to dorks, but maybe that means nothing to you?"

Neal patted Janet's arm. "We'll find a way to cure them," he said soothingly.

Chloe looked more baffled than ever as Sam started in with his soft-spoken questioning. Neal had learned to admire his technique the day before. He had a gift for reassuring people.

"Did you see Dean last night?" he asked.

Chloe nodded. "He was at the roadhouse. We had a few drinks, then went outside to look at the will-o'-wisps." She turned to Neal. "Your friend Peter was with us, too. They told me townspeople have been reporting them for the past week, but this was my first time to see them. One of them hovered right over our heads."

"Did you see if it touched Dean or Peter?" Sam asked.

Chloe considered for a moment. "Maybe? Have you seen them? They look like a swirling mass of gas. It's certainly possible some of the gas grazed their heads."

Sam sat back, shaking his head. "I don't like it."

Chloe was looking increasingly perplexed so Neal added an explanation. "The town's in the grips of an epidemic where men are turning into dorks."

She started to laugh but her smile vanished when she noticed how serious the three of them were. She turned to Janet. "So you weren't joking?"

Janet let out her frustration in a huff. "I hope you don't think I'd normally date a man who spends his days watching cartoons and making messes with his Froot Loops."

Chloe looked wide-eyed at them. "But how is this possible?"

Sam hesitated. "You're probably not going to believe this either, but I suspect the culprit is some sort of spell. Spirits such as Boginiki and Nocnitsas are known to haunt swamps. European folklore has many legends about will-o'-wisps where they act like malicious demons."

Chloe stared worriedly at him. "You're beginning to sound like my stories, but what I write is fiction."

"Demons aren't just something in stories—they're real," Sam said.

Chloe listened intently as Sam explained what they'd discovered, her face growing pale. "Surely I didn't . . . " She swallowed hard.

"Didn't what?" Neal demanded.

Biting her lower lip, Chloe turned her head to view the TV lounge. By now, all the seats were taken.

"If you know anything, you have to tell us," Janet pleaded.

"I don't see how I could have caused it."

"Just let us know what you did," Sam urged.

She took a deep breath. "Last Sunday evening, I stopped off at the swamp on my way to Buttonwood. You need to understand, I'd had a hard week. The project manager for my last job was a sexist pig—he criticized my work in the most offensive terms—I was outraged." She shrugged. "As a freelancer, I really didn't have a way to protest, and I was too far along in the job to quit."

Sam was making notes. "Give us every detail."

"It was about seven at night. I remember I was singing 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun' to try to boost my spirits, but I was still in a blue funk, so . . ." Chloe paused and cleared her throat. "You should know that I'm researching an upcoming novel that will feature witches. The internet is an amazing resource for spells and incantations."

Sam sighed. "You cast a spell."

She nodded. "I was ticked off at the bonehead for the way he treated me, and I needed to clear my mind. On a lark, I decided to cast a spell on him, thinking that would exorcise my frustration. After all, spells don't actually work. It was harmless, right?" She looked pleadingly at them and although Neal was inclined to agree with her, he was curious to hear what she'd done. Sam, on the other hand, was looking grim.

"I stopped at a pull-off—it was in the middle of the swamp, about five miles from Buttonwood," Chloe said, a small frown forming as she concentrated. "I drew a circle in the dirt on the shoulder of the road, lit a candle, and sprinkled some althea root around. Althea is supposed to aid psychic powers."

"You carry althea root in your car?" Janet asked incredulously.

"I like to be thorough," she said, looking a little defensive. "My heroine Zoe is an herbalist. She uses herbs and mushrooms rather than weapons to fight the supernatural forces she encounters. She prefers to collect plants in the wild because they're more potent. I collect samples as I drive around the country." She paused to scan them. "If I'm going to describe something's fragrance, it only makes sense to have smelled it first."

"I know exactly what you mean," Janet agreed. "Many of my best designs come from wildlife I've observed in their natural habitat."

Chloe's face brightened. "You understand! I found a stand of skunk cabbage on the eastern edge of the swamp. The experience was so powerful it was almost mystical. I had to stop and jot down notes."

Janet nodded in agreement. "That's why I always carry a sketchbook in the field."

Sam cleared his throat. "Getting back to the present situation"—Janet and Chloe froze with almost identical guilty looks on their faces—"What was the spell you used?"

"Oh, just your standard string of Latin words," she said sheepishly. "I added a sentence—I used an online English-Latin dictionary for help—where I said 'If any spirit hears my plea, turn Arne Maskonin into a dork for me.' " She looked at Sam hesitantly. "Harmless stuff, right?"

"I need to hear the exact words," Sam said firmly.

She cleared her throat. "It goes something like this: Di quisaudierit verba mea spiritum placito verto ArneMaskoninin inepte pro me."

Sam exhaled slowly. "Say it again." After she'd repeated it, he said, "Your Latin accent is atrocious."

"I don't claim to be a Latin scholar," Chloe retorted.

"Your Arne Maskonin sounds suspiciously like omni masculine to me."

"So?"

"Omni masculine just happens to mean all men." Sam grimaced. "I think your plea got answered."

"Help!" The inn clerk raced into the dining room. "There's a food fight in the TV lounge. Popcorn's flying everywhere!"

Neal groaned. "I'm on it."

Janet got up to join him, admonishing Sam and Chloe, "I'm counting on you. Find us a solution, fast."

After the mess in the lounge was cleaned up, all the non-affected guests worked up a monitoring schedule. An abject Chloe volunteered to help with Dean. That was fortunate. She seemed to be the only one Dean would respond to.

Dean's practical jokes were the hardest to take. A well-meaning wife had supplied the men with a whoopee cushion, thinking it would amuse them. Dean and Mozzie thought it was so hilarious that soon the sound of farts was a constant affliction of the inn.

The Peeper Jamboree was scheduled for that day. The event was a dud as far as Neal was concerned. Green plastic frogs were for sale. Food booths offered frog cookies, frog pies, frog cupcakes, and frog sandwiches. Perhaps it was for the best that Mozzie wasn't himself or he would have been horrified by all the green food coloring.

But the jamboree proved to be a blessing as it provided entertainment for the dork victims. Various contests had been set up along Main Street. A game called Frog Flip where the goal was to toss a rubber ball and hit a plywood frog on his lily pad was particularly productive. Sam was excused to work on his research, although he occasionally dropped in to check on Dean's condition and take photos.

In the afternoon, Janet and Chloe corralled Peter, Dean, and Mozzie into the library for story hour. Neal returned to the inn to check on Sam's progress, stopping to pick up frog cupcakes for both of them and a double espresso for himself.

"Tell me you found something . . . anything," Neal pleaded, handing him a cupcake.

Sam peeled back the paper on the green confection. "Maybe. The most promising is a Nocnitsa."

"You'd mentioned that earlier. What exactly is it?"

"Nocnitsas are Slavic nightmare spirits who live in swamps. They don't generally cause bodily harm but are malicious pranksters."

"That sounds right." Neal hadn't heard of anyone being injured.

"I found reports of a Nocnitsa in the Alepu swamp of Bulgaria that had many of the characteristics of a witch. The spirit used will-o'-wisps to cast spells on the local townspeople, causing them to cast off their clothes and go around naked."

"How'd they remove the spell, or is the town still a nudist colony?"

"The person who'd contacted the Nocnitsa was identified. Sounds like a similar situation to Chloe—a witch wannabe. The woman in Bulgaria had gotten ticked off by some do-gooder and was seeking revenge. Her efforts to release the spell failed. Finally, a hunter in Poland heard about the problem and ganked the Nocnitsa."

"Hunter?"

Sam hesitated for a moment. "That's what Dean and I are. We hunt things."

"Things? Could you be a little more specific?"

He cleared his throat. "Demons, vampires, witches . . ." He sat back, clearly expecting Neal to mock him, but after the events of the past day, Neal wasn't in a laughing mood. He wasn't ready to say he believed in actual, real-life demons, but malicious will-o'-wisps? Maybe.

"So if we're dealing with a Nocnitsa, how do we . . . um, gank it?"

"The hunter said he discovered iron bullets work. That makes sense. They were effective against a Shtriga."

"Shtriga?"

"You don't wanna know. I've given you enough to digest for a day. We have some iron bullets in our car. I'll get the directions from Chloe and go out this evening."

"I'll go with you."

Sam shook his head. "Too dangerous, sorry. I appreciate the offer but a paintbrush won't be much help."

"I have a few other talents. Marksmanship is one of them. Besides, you'll need two people to con this Nocnitsa. One to be the mark, the other to take it down."

Sam took a while to convince but Neal was eventually able to wear him down. Their skills matched up well. Sam knew what to look for, and Neal was an expert at dodging out of sight. After Neal gave a small demonstration by challenging Sam to tail him on the streets of Buttonwood, Sam accepted his help readily.

They decided to wait until eight o'clock to go to the swamp in the hopes that the will-o'-wisps would have dispersed into town to seek more victims. Chloe provided exact directions to the pull-off where she'd cast the spell. She and Janet would supervise Mozzie, Peter, and Dean. Personally, Neal thought the women had the harder challenge.

#

"So what does a Nocnitsa look like anyway?" Neal asked. Up to now, Sam had been annoyingly vague.

They'd arrived at Chloe's pull-off an hour earlier. Sam had a shotgun beside him, supposedly loaded with iron bullets. He'd retrieved it from the trunk once Neal was seated in the car. He seemed reluctant for Neal to see what was inside. Big mistake. Neal vowed to explore it at the first opportunity. The Bureau was counting on him. They certainly couldn't rely on Peter to perform due diligence.

"The hunter who killed it said that from a distance it looked like a tall pillar of light," Sam said. "She could move with lightning-fast speed. It was only when she was a few feet away that he saw her face. Nocnitsa is known as Night Hag in some cultures. Her face resembled a skull. The way the hunter described it reminded me of those Nazi faces at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark."

"That's a depressing thought."

Sam shrugged. "Yeah, but not that unusual for us."

Neal gazed out over the swamp. They were staying in the car to protect themselves from any wayward will-o'-wisps, but so far they'd only seen a couple at a distance. A full moon was overhead. The light mingled with the mist rising off the swamp to cast broken reflections on the surface of the water. Trees loomed tall, their branches covered with emerging buds. Would the Nocnitsa be hidden in the trees or would she skim the surface of the water? The infamous spring peepers were going full throttle, their loud peeps reverberating in a continuous cacophony throughout the swamp.

"You and Dean must do a lot of demon stakeouts," Neal prompted, hoping he'd open up about his jobs.

Sam nodded. "You probably have your share of stakeouts as well."

"Yeah. I can smell the aroma of deviled ham wafting up now."

Sam turned to stare at him. "What?"

"That's Peter's favorite sandwich. The smell in a closed car is enough to make you swear off ever eating ham again.

"With me, it's Dean's triple-bacon cheeseburgers." Sam heaved a sigh. "Would it kill him to have a salad just once in a while?"

Neal nodded in sympathy. "I tried once to coax Peter into eating a quinoa wrap. He acted like I wanted to poison him." Neal paused to study his new stakeout buddy. "How'd a guy like you wind up on demon patrol?"

"I kinda fell into it. It wasn't my intention. Life happened . . . Dean needed me . . ." He turned to Neal. "How about you? You're not like any FBI agent I've ever met."

"I drifted as a kid. Fell off the tracks more times than I can remember."

"Hence the pool and the poker."

"Those and a few other skills best not mentioned. Peter offered me a way out—a chance to turn my life around and work as a consultant. I'm going to grad school now. A year ago, I wouldn't have dreamed that was possible. It could happen to you too."

"Maybe, but unlikely. I've thought about leaving but the life keeps sucking me back in. My dad was a hunter. It's in my blood."

"You referred to your family business. Is that what you meant?"

"Saving people, hunting things. That pretty much describes it."

Neal mulled over Sam's words. His father was a cop-killer. He hoped his dad's blood wasn't influencing him. "Dean's your brother. You can't desert him."

"Yeah, even when he's a jerk . . . or a dork. Usually he's a jerk. Way too protective. Acts like I'll fall apart unless he's there to save me. Now, the table's turned, and I'm going to save him."

"Peter's the same way, always stewing about what trouble I'm in when I'm perfectly capable of extricating myself from any situation without a scratch. He's a worrywart by nature. I keep telling him to chill, but he never listens."

"This will be a good lesson for them."

"Agreed. I wonder what they're doing now."

Sam grinned. "I hope Dean's not disgracing himself too badly, though it'd be fun to watch."

"I told Janet to take photos."

Notes: A Nocnitsa is a nightmare spirit in Slavic mythology.

Dorky dancing is the subject of my blog this week. The actors of the TV series have provided rich reference material for their inner dorks. I selected some of my favorites.