The Elders of Whitehorse Pines

As I drove through the frozen mountains to a village said to have been abandoned for over forty years, I felt something sickly filling the space in my stomach. I could feel my heartbeat thumping in a peculiar rhythm as I watched the lonely dirt roads disappear behind me into the thick white mist.

      “It’s getting too far to turn back now,” said Wyatt.

      “Just keep your foot on the pedal, put your hillbilly music on, and get comfy, old boy.”

      “Get a load of these coming right up.” Wyatt pointed to the homemade signs along the trail. They grew more foreboding and stranger the more miles we drove. He sighed at the warning signs that led into the isolated town. I rolled down the swivel handle of the window from the rental and welcomed the musk of pine trees into the car while I investigated.

      “That ain’t right at all,” Wyatt winced his rugged face. “That is not representative of this state.”

      “I know that, Wyatt. I know they're all bullshit.”

      After the avalanche warning signs and wolf crossing you’d expect to find in any rural remote parts of Alaska, they surprised us by displaying the more heinous ones. There were some signs with racial slurs of every derogatory term that existed. One could simply think of any minority group and there was a template of it with the words “not welcomed!” that existed. I waited until I found my very own personalized one, like it was a winning lottery. “There we go! Knew they wouldn’t miss us. “I laughed.

      “We shouldn’t be here.” Wyatt shook his head.

      He was at the helm of the wheel, taking me to the town where I’d write my story.

      “Don’t need to be afraid on my behalf.”

      “You know, there’s a nice lake with some good people just a few miles north. I have a good bud in the community. They’d be kind enough to pose for you.”

      “I’m getting photos of the town, Wyatt. D’ya think I flew half a day for nothing?”

      “You realize we’re traversing into uncharted territory here, right? Whatever you’re used to in the lower 48 in terms of protection, you can throw that shit out the window here.”

      “That’s enough,” I said, extending my arm out. “You See? No jitters, calm as a cucumber.”

      “Maryanne, I won’t charge you extra if we head back. I’ll even discount my fees for the day.”

      “Big and tough wilderness man you are, and a few offensive signs got you jumpy? Isn’t that why you’re here with your bear-hunting rifle?” I tapped him on the arm. He wasn’t amused.

      “You know, I don’t hope to use it.”

      After Wyatt calmed down, I took a look through my transcripts and went through the old photos from 1981. Something happened when an outsider tormented the townfolk, the locals then tortured and murdered him gruesomely. The town then shut out anyone else coming through. After a decade-long cold-case investigation, nobody ever got answers to who it was. Almost a generation later, nobody ever visited the town of Whitehorse Pines again and it said those residents locked down and never even left.

      I was the only journalist dumb enough to venture in after that huge PR dumpfire.

      After several hundred miles of listening to Wyatt’s humdrum of music tastes, I could almost memorize the lyrics to those dull bluegrass and folk songs. His hunting stories were much more pleasing to the ears, but we finally spotted a person. Upon closer examination, we were surprised to discover it was a child walking all on her own. Wyatt turned the car near her while I waved her down through the window.

      “Hey there! Oh my God, it’s so nice to find someone out here. Felt like we were on another planet for a while. What are you doing out here all alone? Are your parents around?”

      The strange pale girl stared at me sternly, without saying a word she turned away. Her eyes lacked the glow of an innocent child. Despite her physical appearance, she dressed like a survivor. I glanced at her clothing, thick white fur draped around her short bony frame, with carcasses of white bloodied hares tied in ropes hung limply from her shoulder.

      I called to her again and she muttered something to me while Wyatt turned to me in disbelief. “I’m really busy,” she whispered angrily. “You two shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be anywhere near here. This town doesn’t like visitors.” She said with her faint voice.

      “Oh, no you have the wrong idea about us.” I lifted my camera up to show her I meant no harm. “Just doing some photography here. We won’t stay too long and won’t bother anyone.”

      “They don’t care,” she said. “Makes no difference in the duration you stay. They’ll hurt you both, tear the meat out of your brittle bones, even.”

      “Hey! Wait a second.”

     I turned to Wyatt for a moment, and then, like that, she was gone. Lost in the snow somewhere. Wyatt got the shakes. I could see the sweat glistening on his forehead and could watch the foggy breath in the car more repeatedly. “That was weird...”

      “Maryanne, I don’t get this feeling often, but I can sense something wrong here. I had it when I was hunting this Kodiak one winter. Damn thing nearly took me out. It was only a few feet away. I feel this...”

      “Spit it out, old boy.”

      “I feel like something is watching us,” he said, his voice holding trepidation in it.

      My eyebrows furrowed.

      The audacity of a child, talking to us like that. No respect.

      I tried making light of the situation and reached out to feel Wyatt’s chest exhaling out and in with deeper breaths. “Oh, you’re just getting hungry, old boy. It’s the stomach grumbles, I have them too!”

      He kept driving but kept quiet.

      I wasn’t going to let a strange little girl scare me off. I continued and asked Wyatt to drive more cautiously than before while he found her trail leading off course from the road. It wasn’t long before we spotted a misty forest and evidence of a community.

      The ghost town was filled with old wooden houses and one tall clock tower at the very end. I quickly snapped a photo of it. We found a place to park and watched from inside the car. The chimes of a clock tower began loudly and lingered.

      The tintinnabulation rattled my head instantly.

      We waited in the car while watching a few old men and women exit their homes, walking towards the sound where the bells rang. 

      A few children also were spotted, a stark contrast of the very old and the very young. Finally, a friendly old woman approached us.

      “Good afternoon, in town for service?”

      I smiled back. “Not quite.”

      “Well, why don’t you come on down, get a feel for things?” she said.

      “Thank you, but we’re in a bit of a hurry. You seem like a very sweet woman though, how long have you lived here?”

      “Oh, very long,” she said.

      “Would you be able to spare a moment to talk with us? Off the record of course.”

      “What is your name, young lady?”

      “Maryanne. It’s a pleasure. We can make it worth your while. We can pay you for a few quotes or off the records. Won’t take long, we promise.” I handed her my credentials.

      “Miss Maryanne, may I ask you a question?”

      “Of course.”

      “Did the president survive?”

      “Survive what?”

      “Did President Reagan make it out OK?”

      I laughed. “He died back in 2004.”

      “Oh,” she said. “So he did survive? I’ve always been curious.”

      “Are you referring to the assassination attempt? Don’t you have newspapers or the internet?”

      “Internet?”

      “Pfft. Let’s get out of here,” said Wyatt. “More people are approaching.”

      A few more of the elderly in the town joined in to greet us eagerly. They frantically scribbled notes into crumbles of paper and desperately handed them to me.

      “Please, I need to find out if my daughter is still alive, this is my information.”

      Some letters had their names written down with coordinates.

      “What’s this?”

      An older man grabbed my arm and caressed it. “You shouldn’t be here. The elders will find you, and we don’t want you getting hurt. They don’t want the police out here again so they'll handle things on their own. Bad, very bad things will happen...”

      The group of older people quickly dispersed when they spotted a child coming out of their home.

      “Wait!” I exited my vehicle to call them out again.

      They pretended we never spoke.

      One child approached from afar.

      I took a few photos while he walked closer to the people before they disappeared into the mist towards the church. I took a couple of the boy too.

      The child wore a distinct style of clothing than the rest of the people living there, in more traditional garments, something more reminiscent of the authentic clothes that my parent’s native country wore during special events. They were made from warm colors with loose scarves and sleeves.

      There was something so strange about the youth in this town. 

      I waved at him while he approached, but he looked annoyed.

      One old woman approached the boy and distracted him by extending out her wrists.

      The boy grabbed her and pulled her arm closer while he bit into her veins.

      “C’mon, Maryann!” Wyatt reversed the car so quickly that the tires stalled. They spat snow and mud upwards. “Should’ve fucking listened to me from the beginning!” he shouted.

      My jaw dropped. I watched the boy from the rear window in awe. He had been feeding, while small streams of blood sprayed from his chin as he clutched at the old woman’s arm and drank from the wounds.

      I struggled to grab my camera and point the lens when the boy disappeared.

      “Where did he go?!”

      Then, I saw the top of his head briefly. He was trying to pull the backdoor of the SUV open. I could hear the metal from the handle bending when Wyatt floored it.

      And we had lost him. 

      The thick, dark clouds slowly engulfed the misty skies while the wind picked up. The cold chills that came through them while Wyatt picked up the pace felt piercing, but Wyatt and I remained focused.

      “We lost him, Wyatt! Don’t have a heart attack.”

      “Grab my gun” Wyatt demanded.

      I grabbed his large, elongated rifle and handed it to him. “But we’re in the clear?”

      “Point it out!” he shouted. He showed me how to load and cock the weapon.

      “Wyatt?”

      “The girl!” he said. 

      I had forgotten about her until we passed her again; she was covered in blood splatters standing by the old tree in the snow. I could see she had been waiting and looking out for us.

      Wyatt handed me earmuffs. “Put these on and shoot at her! NOW!”

      I quickly shot it and scared her off.

      When I returned home, I had a few photographs to publish of the residents and town but the ones of the boy were too blurry.

      They had gone viral along with the story I had written of the strange children who lived there; I was vague about the rest of the details, but I made sure to reference my incredible guide, Wyatt, who had the unfortunate experience of dealing with me, and having his ears ringing for a few days. I hoped that the story would bring his tour guide more business but, I may have caused the old man to retire early. There was no mention of the letters given to me, I held on to them for now until I planned what to do with them. I wasn’t sure if it was safe to put those families at risk.