Cassandra Case Files Read online

  Cassandra Case Files

  The Cassandra Case Files, Volume 1

  Steven F. Warnock

  Published by Wordsmith Publishing, 2020.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  CASSANDRA CASE FILES

  First edition. May 1, 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 Steven F. Warnock.

  ISBN: 978-1393651673

  Written by Steven F. Warnock.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Cassandra Case Files (The Cassandra Case Files, #1)

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

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  Further Reading: The Magog Gambit

  Also By Steven F. Warnock

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Part One:

  The Lewisburg Monster

  Chapter One

  Lewisburg, West Virginia

  Monday, October 29, 2018

  THE STRANGERS ARRIVED in a bright blue Toyota Tacoma pickup truck. Mr. Ryan Durand stepped out onto his front porch with a Remington 870 shotgun cradled in the crook of his arm. He didn’t point the 12 gauge at his unexpected visitors. The weapon wasn’t so much for them as it was in case something else showed up. After a quick scan of the forest beyond the modest front yard of his farm, Mr. Durand turned his attention to the two strangers in their blue pickup.

  They were a man and a woman, both looked to be in their middle or late twenties as far as Mr. Durand could discern, and both were dressed in casual, rugged clothing. They looked like they were ready to go on a hike through the local Appalachian scenery, but Mr. Durand hoped they were just stopping to ask for directions to get somewhere other than here. These woods were too dangerous for locals to hike in, much less strangers. Neither the man nor the woman seemed bothered by being greeted by a man with a shotgun.

  The male stranger was tall, probably six-foot-two like Mr. Durand himself, but where Ryan Durand was lanky, maybe even a touch skinny, the other man was muscular and well built, almost like a bodybuilder but not quite. Mr. Durand figured that the other man’s physique seemed to fall right between that of a weightlifter and a cross-country runner. In high school, a long, long time ago, Ryan Durand had run cross-country, so he knew what a runner looked like. From the porch looking down, the other guy was too far away to really see his eyes, but to Mr. Durand, they looked to be brownish although he did detect flashes of green and gold, and the man’s hair seemed to be too light to really be brown yet too dark to really be blond. Mrs. Durand called that color “sandy.” The stranger’s sandy hair was cut short, high and tight like a soldier, and he was clean-shaven, too.

  Mr. Durand automatically nicknamed the stranger “Soldier Boy” in his thoughts because in addition to his hygiene the younger man kind of dressed like a soldier or one of those private military contractors that the farmer liked to read about in the Modern Adventurer and Guns & Knives magazines they had at the local Walmart. Soldier Boy was wearing digi-cam cargo pants, like the kind they sold online at 5.11 Tactical, and his boots looked like military issue. He had on a blue flannel shirt and a black fleece vest underneath a military-style field jacket with the same digi-cam pattern as his pants to ward off the unusual cold snap they were experiencing today. The high had been in the low 60s the day before and was predicted to warm up almost to 70 on Halloween, but today the temperature wasn’t gonna get higher than 50.

  The woman was a head-turner, that was for sure, Mr. Durand decided as his attention was drawn to her. She was a redhead, what his wife would call either copper or auburn, whichever was darker, and she was pretty, too, like she’d stepped out of a magazine photoshoot pretty. “Red” (as Durand had decided to call her in his head) was dressed in hiking boots, blue jeans, a blue flannel shirt, and what looked like an M-65 field jacket cut for a woman, also blue. Atop Red’s head was a blue knit beanie tugged down over her ears and served to keep her long hair out of her face. Durand couldn’t see her eyes behind the aviator sunglasses she was wearing, but she did treat him to a bright, brilliant smile.

  “Are you Mr. Durand?” Red asked.

  Durand couldn’t resist the tiny little thrill of such a beautiful young woman addressing him. Even if he was old enough to be her father or grandfather.

  “Yes, ma’am, and you are...?”

  She took her sunglasses off to reveal brilliant green eyes that seemed to sparkle merrily when she smiled. “I’m KC MacMurray, and this is my husband Mack MacDuff. We were wondering if we might talk to you about your, um, current troubles?”

  “You with the Discovery Channel? Or one of them other cable networks? ‘Cause if you ain’t and you ain’t got no solution for our problem, you young folks might wanna get on back down the road ‘fore dark.” Durand hated being so blunt, but he didn’t want these people’s lives on his conscience.

  “I don’t see how the Discovery Channel can help you, but we are here about solving your problem. May we come inside? I’m sure you want to get in out of this cold.”

  Red beamed another smile at him, and Durand felt himself nodding. “A’ight. Y’all come on in. Don’t want ya thinkin’ West Virginians are inhospitable.”

  “The thought never crossed my mind,” Red declared brightly as she quickly crossed the yard and came up the steps onto the porch of the two-story farmhouse.

  Soldier Boy didn’t rush. He took a couple of deep breaths like he was actually sniffing the air before striding to join his wife on the porch with Durand. The farmer was holding the front door open when Soldier Boy came up on the porch and followed Red into the house. He gave Mr. Durand a nod before passing through the portal. The farmer shut and dead-bolted the door behind them.

  “You young folks can take those coats off and put ‘em on that couch,” Durand directed as the three of them entered the front living room. He placed his shotgun on a rack mounted on the wall by the front door. Beneath the shotgun on the rack was an authentic Colt AR-15 with the A-blade front sight and carry handle rear sight. The CAR-15 reminded Durand of the M-16 he’d carried as a Marine during Desert Storm. When he turned around, Mr. Durand was mildly surprised to see that both Soldier Boy and Red were armed.

  Red had some kind of compact semi-automatic holstered on her right hip, and Soldier Boy had two sidearms: a semi-automatic on his right hip and a large revolver in a shoulder holster under his left arm.

  “You expecting a fight, son?” Mr. Durand asked with a wry chuckle as he waved a casual hand at Soldier Boy’s rig.

  “Always.”

  “Come on in the kitchen. Least I can do is offer y’all a cup of coffee,” Mr. Durand said as he turned toward the back of the house. He called out, “Leann! We got company!”

  “Oh, who?” Mrs. Durand asked as she stepped out of the kitchen. She was rubbing her hands on the bottom of an old apron to dry them. She peered at the armed strangers in her living room with a lively interest.

  “I’m sorry, but what did you say y’all’s names was?” Mr. Durand sighed. “My hearing’s shot and so is my short term memory.”

  “That’s quite alright, Mr. Durand,” Red replied with a grin as she stepped forward and offered her hand to Mrs. Durand. “My name is Kayleigh MacMurray,
but I go by ‘KC’, and this is my husband Mack MacDuff, and we are here to help you with your monster problem.”

  “I done asked, and she says they ain’t with the Discovery Channel,” Mr. Durand sighed.

  Mrs. Durand looked crestfallen. “Oh, that’s too bad.”

  “May I ask why?” KC frowned.

  “Well, you mentioned it, the monster, not that too many people believe us,” Mrs. Durand sighed, “but the story’s gotten ‘round, and enough others ‘sides us have seen it that, well, our property value has plummeted. If we was to sell the farm today, we’d be losin’ money on it. We was hopin’ that one of them documentary shows on Discovery Channel, like those ‘Mountain Monster’ boys, would come pay us for the rights to our story so’s we could afford to move away. Leave this nightmare to the next poor soul to live here.”

  “Now, Leann, that wouldn’t be a very Christian thing to do,” Mr. Durand declared.

  From the eye-rolling half glare she gave him, anybody could clearly see that this was an old argument between them.

  “Why don’t you young folks sit down to the table and you can explain to us how you can help,” Mrs. Durand suggested. “Are you Bigfoot researchers like that nice fella that came over from Kentucky last month... oh, what was his name?”

  “No, ma’am, we’re not cryptozoologist,” KC corrected as she and Mack sat down at the table. “We’re more what you might call, um, bounty hunters or highly specialized exterminators.”

  “So, you’re literal Bigfoot hunters?” Mr. Durand scoffed.

  “After a fashion. You see, we believe you because we happen to know that Bigfoot is real,” KC explained. “Or rather we know that what current popular culture thinks of as ‘Bigfoot’ is either misidentified wildlife like bears, one of two or three species of large primates found in North America that don’t officially exist, an intelligent species of hominin distantly related to humans, or something paranormal like a werewolf or ogre.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Durand stared at KC for several seconds before turning their attention toward Mack who said, “It’s true. Bigfoot’s real, but so are vampires, werewolves, faeries, elves, wizards, ghosts, demons, the Jersey Devil, Moth-man. Most UFO and alien encounters are actually magical creatures pranking mundane humans.”

  “Yeah, well, after what we’ve been sufferin’ through for the last year and a half, I’m willin’ to believe y’all,” Mr. Durand sighed. “How do y’all take your coffee?”

  “Black,” Mack grunted.

  “Cream and sugar,” KC answered brightly.

  “So, how does this, um, monster hunting work?” Mrs. Durand asked.

  “First, we’ll need to determine what kind of Bigfoot is terrorizing you,” KC explained. “You see, Sasquatches, the intelligent species of Bigfoot, are protected under the law same as humans. All intelligent paranormals are.”

  “If we shoot him, we’re committing homicide,” Mack added.

  “Right, so, what we have to do if this is a Sasquatch is figure out if it’s an adult or a juvenile. If it’s an adult, we’ll execute a citizen’s arrest and have the Program come in and take custody,” KC said.

  “The what now?” Mr. Durand asked as he placed cups of coffee in front of their guests and sat down with his wife across the table.

  “The Program is the federal agency in the United States that enforces the Roman Accords and protects our national security from supernatural and magical threats,” Mack recited like something he’d learned from rote memory.

  “They’re the Men in Black for the paranormal community,” KC added. “You’ve got to understand that there are monsters out there who are, more or less, human, who can pass for human, who lead boring lives and like it that way. The Program protects them from mundane humans, and protects mundane humans from the real monsters, and they do it all by maintaining this sort of open secret about the fact that monsters and magic really exist. The only reason we’re being so open about it with the two of you right now is that you’ve been drawn into that side of reality against your will.”

  “I suppose you’re gonna tell us we need to keep our mouths shut ‘bout y’all, then,” Mr. Durand guessed.

  “Not really, but if people don’t believe you’re being terrorized by an aggressive Bigfoot monster, are they gonna believe that a couple of monster slayers showed up to fix the problem for you?” KC pointed out.

  “Nope,” Mr. Durand agreed.

  “On the other hand, if we can solve your problem to your satisfaction, and you hear about somebody else in a similar situation, you can always pass on our contact information, and we can drum up new business,” KC added.

  “Business?” Mr. Durand repeated.

  “As Heinlein said, ‘There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch’,” Mack quoted.

  “Yes, we do what we do to make money, but for us, this is more of a calling than an entrepreneurial enterprise,” KC assured them.

  “Folks like us fill in the gap where the government can’t cover you,” Mack explained. “The Program, it operates like a combination of the FBI and Homeland Security with an assist from the Department of Defense. Basically, they fight terrorists and mobsters who happen to be monsters and/or use magic. At the county and state level, there are Program-trained officers who are on the lookout for things like what’s going on with you guys, but there may be one guy who has to cover a quarter to half the state all by his lonesome. That’s where people like us come in, either as private security contractors or freelancers like us.”

  KC jumped into the conversation with, “As I was saying earlier, if your monster is a Sasquatch, we have to make a citizen’s arrest and turn him or her over to the Program or a designated Program contractor. That’s in accordance with the Roman Accords, which is a secret international treaty that governs the interactions between mundanes and paranormals.”

  “Then, what?” Mr. Durand demanded.

  “Then, we collect a modest fee from the Program for making the arrest,” KC shrugged. “Your problem is over, and in time you can either learn to love this place again or be able to sell it at market value. On the other hand, if this is a juvenile Sasquatch, we can track him or her home to their parents, inform them of what’s been happening, and we put you in touch with a lawyer that is familiar with how the Roman Accords interact with civil law, and she’ll sue the Sasquatch family for damages. The lawyer will pay us a finder’s fee up front for sending your business her way.”

  “She’s a good lady, by the way, not the paranormal equivalent of an ambulance chaser. She’s on the up and up, and she’ll take your case for a percentage of the judgment or settlement rather than a fee,” Mack nodded sagely.

  “That brings us around to the possibility that it’s a non-intelligent paranormal, a magically enhanced animal in other words,” KC said.

  “You mentioned large primates?” Mrs. Durand asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. They’re known by a variety of colorful names like skunk apes, the Ohio Grassman, the Dewey Lake monster, and so on, but they are really two or three species of magically enhanced large primates. Skunk apes, for example, are distantly related to orangutans and within the confines of certain swamps can sort of...” KC made a waving gesture with her arm that looked kind of like a snake slithering over the ground “...slip between realities.”

  “Guess that explains why can’t nobody catch one,” Mr. Durand chuckled.

  “They’re relatively timid, but they can be infected with this bacteria located in the swamps on the Other Side that makes them highly aggressive,” Mack explained. “Think 500-pound gorilla with rabies on meth.”

  Mr. Durand shuddered.

  KC continued, “The grassmen are considered proto-ogres, kind of like the way we look at Neanderthals as proto-humans, only ogres are an intelligent, protected species, and grassmen aren’t.”

  “Grassmen are territorial and highly aggressive. They’re also carnivorous and have been known to kill and eat other animals. Including humans,” Mack added.

>   “That’s sounding like what we’ve got,” Mr. Durand exclaimed. “Damn thing done killed my dogs, and I’m positive it's what’s been killing our goats and chickens!”

  “If our monster is one of these grassmen or whatever, what will you do?” Mrs. Durand asked.

  “Kill it,” KC said bluntly. “It is a dangerous animal and needs to be put down.”

  “Does this Program pay you for doing that?” Mr. Durand asked.

  “Not exactly,” KC sighed. “The Roman Accords does specify that a bounty can be set by the local national government on dangerous magical fauna, but in an effort to keep people like us from hunting such things to extinction, that bounty is set pretty low compared to other bounties designated in the Accords, to be paid out by the Roman Catholic Church through the offices of the Order of St. Hubert, and there’s no bureaucracy in the world quite like the Catholic Church when you’re trying to make a living.”

  “So, you’ll be charging us for the work,” Mr. Durand nodded.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” KC confirmed, “but what we charge is on a case-by-case basis. Like I said, this is a calling for us. Our fee won’t be anything strenuous on your finances if we can at all help it.”

  “We got other streams of income,” Mack assured the Durands.

  “We don’t mind barter, either,” KC said. “We will even trade-in favors some times.”

  “Is this your worst-case scenario?” Mr. Durand asked.

  KC shook her head. “Not exactly. Financially for us? Yes. For you, though? It can get worse. Your monster could be something, well, demonic. Literally a demon either physically manifested or a spirit summoned to inhabit a prepared vessel.”

  “Either way, they’re more difficult to kill,” Mack said. Then, he grinned. “On the bright side, per the Roman Accords, not only is it perpetual open season on demons and undead, there’s a generous bounty paid on such critters, which is disbursed by the federal government through the Program, and they pay promptly.”