The Question

How do you go about accusing a family you’ve never met of being murderers? That was a thought that tumbled through Fletcher’s head on the drive up to Weyauwega.

He hadn’t trained to ask these sorts of questions to strangers. At any point, he could have turned around back to Milwaukee, but he continued ever northward. His destination, Weyauwega, was beyond where the farmlands of southern Wisconsin turn into the marshy forests of the north. The inhospitable land that Native American tribes were driven in order to free up farmland for immigrants from Germany, Ireland, and Sweden. A place where evening mists conceal the animals of the primordial forest, and the wind whispers with the spirits of earlier people and eras. The Encyclopedia Britannica stated there are 15,000 lakes in the northern half of the state. For Fletcher, it was another world entirely.

After many hours of driving, he pulled into his destination. He adjusted his Wisconsin State Trooper uniform, felt the reassuring weight of the Colt .38 on his hip, and stepped out of his patrol car. Every time her got out of his car, he thought of his wife, and soon to be child. But every time, duty pushed him forward. The Annsbury Inn stood before him painted straw yellow with awnings over the windows, a simple sign displaying “Vacancy” in one of them.

He ascended the steps, turned the doorknob, and entered. A bell chime announced his arrival. A woman, slightly startled by the sudden noise, sat behind the reception counter. She regained her composure, looked up, and smiled.

“How can I help you?” Her voice was soothing.

Fletcher wasn’t sure if he should be circumspect or direct.

“Sorry to trouble you. I’m investigating the disappearance of Wiiyuk Greendeer.”

“I haven’t heard of anyone by that name.”

“His disappearance was in all the newspapers.”

The woman smiled tightly. There was only a copy of the Bible on her desk. Fletcher realized newspapers weren’t delivered this far out.

“This is the only inn in Weyauwega, so I thought he might have stayed here.”

“I will check the guest registry.” She pulled out a book from beneath the counter and slowly examined the names written inside, one by one.

While she studied the guest registry, Fletcher glanced around the lobby. There were flags and signs with patriotic slogans, as in most places in rural Wisconsin. “I’ve also driven up from Milwaukee, so I’ll need a room.”

“For a sheriff, it’s on the house.” She passed over the guest ledger. He signed it at the bottom and handed it back. He noticed the remnants of a page that had been torn out. She glanced at him. “Come to dinner tonight. 8 PM. You’re the only guest in the hotel.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond to the invite. The state patrol’s experienced detectives were off doing military service. As a devotee of proper police procedure, Trooper Fletcher felt slightly lost. But a real dinner would be better than eating the bologna sandwiches he had packed. “Yes, ma’am, I would love to.”

An hour later, he sat at a formal dining room table with Marge, the woman from reception, and a man she introduced as Bob, her husband, and their two small children.

Before dinner, the children had screamed at the man, “Dad, play cowboys and Indians with us!”

Bob whooped and hollered, and chased the children around. After entertaining them for a few minutes, he told them, “Now sit down and eat your dinner nicely, kids, and Dad will make you some popcorn afterward.”

A small feast was laid out on the formal dining table in a room off the lobby. Fletcher took off his hat, hung it on a hook on the wall, and sat down.

As they began to eat, Bob explained to Fletcher, “We are living on Ho-Chunk land, from here to Wittenberg.” 

“Is that right?”

“There were battles in these forests back in the day.” 

In school, they had taught mostly about George Washington, and Fletcher didn’t know much about the history of his own state. The mood was jovial, so he told them about playing football in Oconomowoc. Bob listened with great interest. Fletcher spotted what was wrong. Marge hadn’t said a word throughout the dinner.

In a break in their chatter, Marge’s eyes suddenly glimmered. She had been waiting for the right moment. “Are you married, Officer Fletcher?”

“Wife and soon-to-be daughter.”

“A question for you. What would you do if someone threatened to take your home away? What would you do to protect the people you love?”

He didn’t know how to answer such an earnest question, so said his default answer. “I would call the police.” He smiled.

Bob pointed at Fletcher’s police uniform, and chuckled. “Me too! And they’re already here.” He sprang to his feet. “I’m pouring myself another Old Fashioned. How about you, police officer?”

“I’ll have a beer.”

As he Bob sat back down, he dropped his arm only long enough to put his hand on Marge’s shoulder briefly, and she sighed as she let her shoulders drop. 

For a while, they all ate silently. Bob scooping mashed potatoes into his mouth, and making annoying eating noises as if he hadn’t eaten for days. 

“Geez Louise! Slow down and enjoy your food,” Marge said.

“Sorry,” Bob said, and then returned to eating, as if he was still in a rush to get some place. When his plate was clean, he looked over at Fletcher. “Who are you looking for?”

“His name is, or was, Wiiyuk Greendeer.”

“You know many Indians?”

“Can’t say I have.” There was a long pause, as though Bob was thinking of something to say. 

Suddenly the hotel’s phone rang.

It rang at precisely 11 PM. When asked about it later, Supervisor Schmidt said he remembered the time because it was right when WTMJ radio went off-air for the night. When he heard, “Stay tuned and have a good night,” he remembered to call in to Trooper Fletcher.

“He’s coming back,” someone murmured.

“Little Angela has something to show you.”

The little child looked up at him, her eyes round. “My raccoon comes at midnight,” she squeaked. “Do you want to wait for it?” Bob nodded affirmatively. “Come look at it with me?”

Fletcher felt like he couldn’t say no. “Ok, Angela. Let’s go have a look at your raccoon.”

She grabbed a flashlight next to the door, and he followed her down a path into the woods. The walk into the woods took much longer than he had thought it would.

Just when he thought he was on a wild goose chase, Angela shouted, “There!” in a hushed whisper. Little eyes reflected back in the light of the flashlight. A raccoon turned and fled into the trees. Angela tugged his hand for him to follow her.

They slowly stepped through the bushes, following the trail of the raccoon. Angela seemed to know the way.

“Do you know anything about Wiiyuk Greendeer?” he asked her.

“I can’t tell you that,” she said, then kept walking. “There he is.” The raccoon was eating something. As they approached, he saw the raccoon was perched on the end of a hole. Fletcher peered over the edge and saw corn at the bottom.

Her flashlight went dark. 

“Angela?” he asked into the darkness. In the rush out, he forgot to bring his own. He was in the darkness.

He hard the sound of little footsteps running away from him. 

He caught his breath, standing with his back pressed against a wide tree stump. He wouldn’t be able to find his way back in the darkness. It was a puzzle. As he thought of what to do, he felt relieved when he saw a flashlight approaching. 

“I’ve got his trail,” a voice said.

“Bob, is that you?” Fletcher yelled out.

No one replied. The flashlight approached closer, and his eyes were on it when he felt movement behind his back, from the darkness. Something heavy hit his head. He tumbled down into the hole, as if in slow motion.

Laying at the bottom of the hole, he observed, as if he was out of his body, Bob pointing a finger down at him and telling Angela, “Fletcher comes back every Halloween.”

***

Each October 31, the spirit of State Trooper Fletcher, who disappeared in 1943 while investigating the mysterious death of Ho-Chunk landowner Wiiyuk Greendeer, returns to Weyauwega, returns to haunt the inhabitants of the Annsbury Inn.