Two weeks earlier.

Phoebe grimaced as the deafening screech of an out of tune saxophone blared in her ear. Casting a glare over her shoulder at the street performer dressed as Spiderman playing a disgraceful version of Amazing Grace, she stepped off the curb…straight into a pothole. The unexpected jolt caused her ankle to twist as she spilled her mocha latte down the front of her black with purple pinstripe suit.

“Dammit,” cursed Phoebe as the right heel on her black pumps snapped off. As she bent down to retrieve the heel, a taxi horn blared angrily. “All right! All right! I’m moving!” she shouted in the direction of the New York Yellow Cab before hobbling across the crosswalk. Tossing the heel in her shoulder bag, she vainly rummaged around for a napkin or tissue to wipe off her suit. “Too bad people don’t carry handkerchiefs anymore,” she muttered under her breath as she swiped at the droplets of creamy chocolate liquid which clung to the fabric of her skirt. Tossing the now empty coffee cup in the trash, she made her way down the block to the offices of the New York Ledger.

Emerging from the glass revolving door into the large, marble floored lobby, she tilted up her chin in greeting to the security guard. “Hey, Matt.”

“Morning, Phoebe,” replied Matt without looking up from the racing form he was studying. “They’re waiting for you in Henry’s office.”

“I know.” She pressed the button for the elevator as she took another rueful swipe at her still damp skirt. At least it missed her silk blouse, she thought with a pained smile.

Hobbling out of the elevator on the fifteenth floor, Phoebe gave the receptionist a quick wave as she walked past to her cubicle.

The receptionist covered the mouthpiece on her headphones and leaned over her desk to call out, “Henry’s waiting for you in his office.”

“I know,” responded Phoebe over her shoulder without turning around.

Limping to her desk, she sat down with a huff. Unbuckling both ankle straps, she pulled off her black pumps. Opening the bottom drawer of her desk, she surveyed the random selection of shoes; a pair of black high heels and red pair of flats, some old worn sneakers and a pair of slippers. Selecting the black high heels, she was placing them on her feet when a bespectacled face appeared over the gray wall of her cubicle.

“What are you doing? Henry’s waiting.”

Jimmy was the assistant to the assistant editor at the Ledger. Basically an all-around jimmy-on-the-spot, go-to man for the staff. Unfortunately, he looked like an even nerdier version of Leonard from The Big Bang Theory, complete with glasses and a rather eclectic collection of comic book t-shirts. He also looked to be about sixteen despite his age of thirty-two…of course, the comic book t-shirts didn’t help.

“So I’ve heard,” quipped Phoebe as she rose out of her seat, grabbed her spiral notebook and followed Jimmy into Henry Cobb’s, the Chief Editor of the Ledger, office.

“Helluva job, Wilson. Helluva job!” exclaimed Henry as he raised his considerable bulk out of his long-suffering office chair to greet her.

In the five years since she had been at the Ledger, working her way up from intern to investigative journalist, Henry had never called her by her first name, Phoebe, not once. She was always ‘Wilson’ to him. Phoebe figured it was his way of coping with the regrettable fact…at least to him…that she was a female. Despite his old boys’ club tendencies, Henry was an amazing boss and the closest thing she had to a father.

Laughing, Phoebe plucked the cigar from his fingers and snubbed it out in the ashtray which was a permanent fixture on the right hand corner of his desk.

“You don’t ever snub out a cigar,” he complained. “That’s sacrilege.”

Giving him an admonishing look, she said, “You promised no cigars before noon. You can at least wait till then before you completely ignore all your doctor’s orders for the day.”

Mumbling something about meddling females, Henry lowered himself into his chair behind his desk. Tapping one pudgy finger on the folded newspaper there, he repeated, “Helluva job! I hear the FBI is now getting involved.”

“It will take me another week to get the stench of fryer oil out of my hair but it was worth it.” Phoebe smiled with pride as she took a seat across from him.

She had spent the last month undercover as a hostess in Chinatown. It had taken forever to just get the job and even longer to sneak into the owner’s office to grab peeks at his financial records. Being suspicious of computers, Lee Woo had kept everything on paper which actually helped her investigation. Hacking into someone’s computer was a pain in the ass; she much preferred paper files. It was because of Woo’s anxiety over the government spying on his computer that she was able to get copies of all the documentation she needed to prove he was cheating his employees. Paying them far less than minimum wage and sometimes, not paying them at all. Forcing the cooks in the kitchen to work long hours and failing to compensate them for overtime. Cheating the IRS by underreporting the revenue he brought in at his twelve, cash only, restaurants throughout Chinatown. It was her article that brought down the ‘King of Chinatown’ and led to the FBI raiding his offices earlier this morning.

“Associated Press has picked up the article. Should hit wide by tomorrow,” said Henry as he shuffled one large pile of papers from one side of the desk to the other.

“That’s great exposure for the Ledger,” observed Phoebe.

Henry smirked. “Even better for you. One of these days the Post or Times are going to steal you away from me.”

Phoebe looked about the office with its cheap mismatched furniture and faded artwork. “And leave all this luxury?” she joked, giving Henry a playful wink.

Henry snapped his fingers at Jimmy who had been standing patiently by his desk. Jimmy quickly handed him one of the files he was holding.

“I know you are working on that medical thing in Pennsylvania…”

“The lead I got that a few doctors were substituting saline for flu shots? Yeah, but I’m having a hard time getting any evidence to support my source’s claim. Plus, the guy keeps asking if there will be any money in it for him when the story breaks. Honestly, Henry, I smell a rat. I don’t think there’s a story there,” said Phoebe.

“Good, because I got a lead for you. This one comes straight from the top.”

Intrigued, Phoebe raised one eyebrow. “Is it juicy?” she asked leaning forward to try to catch a glimpse of the folder in his hand all the while smiling because she knew Henry hated the word juicy.

Giving her a grimace, he said, “Well, you don’t get any juicier than murder.”

Phoebe fell back into her chair with a disappointed huff. “I don’t do murder. Obituaries are Sam’s department.”

“Come on, Wilson. You know the old adage, if it bleeds it leads. Besides, this came straight from the top.”

“The owner? How is he possibly involved in a murder? Did an old fraternity brother stab his trophy wife with a sharpened oyster spoon?”

Henry tossed the folder on his desk towards her. “Two women ritualistically murdered. Strangled with some weird satanic symbol carved into their chests. One was the daughter of a close friend of the paper. He wants this story out and the murderer found, thinks some press on the issue would help.”

Phoebe opened the folder and looked over the memo from Grant Richards, the owner of the New York Ledger, as Henry continued to talk. Then glimpsing some skin with dark dried crimson blood, she snapped the file shut. The photos were a bit much to take in before her latte kicked in.

“Whole matter is being shushed up. Police were barely even involved in the investigation. Rubber stamped the military’s conclusions.”

Phoebe looked up. “The owner asks for me specifically.” She had wanted to sound nonchalant but there was no keeping the awe and excitement out of her voice.

“Welcome to the big leagues, kid.” Henry reached for another cigar and held a match in front of the rolled tobacco, heating it.

Phoebe watched the tip glow a bright, angry red as she quickly surmised what this could mean for her career. She had no desire to be a little fish in the big swirling vortex of a pond of those larger New York newspapers, but she very much so wanted to be a big fish in the Ledger pond.

Focusing on the matter at hand, she asked, “Why are the police not involved in the main investigation?”

“It happened on the grounds of the Puller Military Academy where one of the teachers was a victim. It’s a distinguished naval school with a lot of powerful alumni. Local cops didn’t stand a chance. They’re blaming some mysterious homeless man, the go-to story when no one wants to find the real killer. My money is on some senator’s son the military is protecting.”

Phoebe nodded as she took in the information. It was a fairly straightforward story. Influential, probably extremely competitive school would do anything to not have a salacious murder attached to their name. It also didn’t surprise her that the Navy would want to handle the matter internally.

“We’re moving fast on this one,” said Henry, interrupting her thoughts. “Jimmy, show her what you got.”

Eager to show off what he had accomplished, Jimmy straightened his glasses and rummaged through the remaining files in his arms. “Building off your own credentials of a Master’s in English Literature, we created a new identity for you and got you a position as an assistant professor of English at the academy.”

Her eyebrow quirked up as Phoebe huffed in disbelief. “I’m assuming this is a prestigious school and they just hired me without an interview?”

“They’re desperate. You’ll be replacing the teacher who was just murdered. Not many clamoring for the position,” piped in Henry.

“Lucky me,” quipped Phoebe.

“Some of the other teachers are spooked and have left mid-term. They need bodies. No pun intended. Plus Mr. Richards greased a few wheels with the Board to get you past all the usual hiring nonsense. You start in two days,” continued Henry.

“Two days! That barely gives me time to pack let alone to do background research!”

“You can research while you are there. They need you there as soon as possible. The term has already started.”

Jimmy handed Phoebe the file with her fake credentials and identification. Phoebe opened the file and immediately shot to her feet.

“What the fuck, Jimmy? Eustace Pringle? Seriously?” she asked incredulously.

Holding his hands up defensively, Jimmy rushed to explain. “We needed you to sound older so they wouldn’t question the hire. My grandmother’s name is Eustace so I figured that would work.”

“The idea is that once you are there, they won’t turn you away when they learn you’re barely twenty-one—” explained Henry.

“Twenty-six,” interrupted Phoebe.

“Whatever. The point is no one is knocking down their doors to grab the open teaching positions, so you’ll be in.”

Casting them both a disgruntled glare, Phoebe looked over the travel itinerary. “Buzzards Bay! You are sending me to a place called Buzzards Bay?”

Rising, Henry patted her on the shoulder as he ushered her out of his office. “Think of it as a vacation. I know you secretly hate the city.”

“Buzzards Bay is not a vacation, Henry. It sounds like a place where pirates hide dead bodies.”

“There you go! You already have the opening line to your murder article. See? You are perfect for this story.”

Phoebe turned to toss a harsh re-joiner over her shoulder, but Henry’s door was already closed.

Jimmy stood sheepishly by her side. “I got you a ticket with as few connecting flights as possible,” he offered as a feeble mea culpa.

“First class?” she asked hopefully.

“Yeah, right,” he snorted.

Phoebe turned to stomp off.

“Have fun in Buzzards Bay, Professor Pringle,” he shouted after her retreating back, laughing as she raised a middle finger in response.

* * *

Phoebe looked over the rim of her black, cat-eye sunglasses. They were really just for show. The weather beyond the taxi window was wet and dull. Grim would be a better word. The run down Camry with just a plain piece of white paper on the dash with the word ‘taxi’ written with a sharpie marker was the best she could find after landing at the local airport. It wound through countless country lanes before breaking out onto a two-lane highway that followed the coast. She watched as foamy sprays of water splashed up on the jagged rocks. Looking out over the Atlantic, the ocean appeared gray and bleak. In the far distance, there was a lighthouse. Usually cheery beacons for travelers, this one had an ominous appearance. As if a large black spider were floating above the salt spray.

“That’s the entrance light to Buzzards Bay,” the driver helpfully offered.

“It’s ah…pretty,” Phoebe politely responded.

They continued to circle round the bay.

“It’s a bit foggy today but to the left…that’s Puller Military Academy,” said the driver.

Phoebe eagerly slid to the other side of the backseat to get a glimpse. At first, all she could see were a pair of turrets peeking out above the dark trees. Then a clearing opened. Her teeth bit into her lower lip, a nervous tick to hide her trepidation. The misty fog and weak sun prevented a crisp view, but she could just make out the harsh angles of the imposing structure. It looked like a medieval castle rising high above the land. Somber and Authoritative. Built of gray stone, it was at least eight stories high with two turrets that stretched even higher. The dark windows gave a hint of possible stained glass images. All that was missing was a drawbridge. It was surrounded by numerous lower buildings all built in the same drab stone. You would think a military academy would have neat and structured landscaping, rigid almost, but that was not the case. The surrounding area looked almost wild. It was a large tapestry of bright and dark green colors from the pitch pine, scrub oaks, ferns, red maples and blueberry bushes which grew unheeded throughout the grounds leading to a high cliff that overlooked the deep, churning bay.

“It’s actually an old monastery. Navy took it over sometime in the early 1920s. Been an academy ever since.” The driver chatted cheerily on as they rounded a curve and all that was left was a view of the academy flag, a brief flash of color, as it flew proudly above one of the turrets.

The rest of the drive continued in silence.

As much as she had an obligation to stay objective, Phoebe had to admit, it certainly looked like the type of place where murderers lurked in the dark shadows.

* * *

The taxi drove off, lightly kicking up dust and stones from the white gravel driveway.

Any hope Phoebe had that Herring Run was actually a quaint Massachusetts bed and breakfast was dashed. It was actually the Herring Run Motel. Funny how Jimmy left the motel part off the travel itinerary. When she got back, she was going to kick him in the shins or maybe tell him Ben Affleck was the best Batman there ever was…either option would hurt him.

At least it looked cute and clean, thought Phoebe as she surveyed the gray walls with black shingles and red doors. Although, what was with this area and the color gray?

The small bell over the door gave off a bright tune as she entered the motel office.

She greeted the older gentleman with a smile. “Hello, my name is…Eustace Pringle. I believe my office made a reservation.”

“We have you right here. Don’t get many visitors up this way in October. Will that be a credit card?”

“No. I’ll be paying in cash. Just the one night.”

“Visiting family?”

“No, I’m a new assistant professor at the military academy,” offered Phoebe. She might as well start working on her cover now and besides, it would be good to possibly get a local’s perspective on the school.

The man gave a low whistle and looked at her with concern. “It’s none of my business, but you seem like a sweet girl. I would hop right back in a taxi and get back to where you came from if I were you.”

“Why do you say that?”

The man gave a conspiratorial look to his left than right, despite their being the only two people in the tiny, cramped office, before leaning over the counter and beckoning her closer. “The place is haunted by the damned,” he whispered.

“My, my…haunted?” Phoebe played along with bemusement.

“By the mad monk. Back in 1666, two monks came to the area to convert the local Indians to Christianity. Story goes they got lost in the forest. Weeks later when they were found, one of the monks had gone mad. Eaten the other one. The mad monk turned into what the Indians call a wendigo, an evil spirit, who haunts the woods to this day.”

A mad cannibalistic monk. A haunted castle…or at least castle-like building. Her story was shaping up, thought Phoebe with a smile.

Phoebe leaned in closer. “Do you think that’s what happened to those two poor women?”

“Heard about that did you?”

Phoebe nodded her head.

Again the man took a cautious look to his left than right.

“I wouldn’t be surprised. There is evil in those woods. More deaths are coming, mark my words.”

On that happy, crazy superstitious note, Phoebe got her room key and went back out into the salty air. Rolling her large suitcase down the narrow sidewalk, she stopped at the crimson door with the gold metal plate, number three. Abandoning her suitcase at the door, she immediately grabbed her shoulder bag and pulled out the color-coded files and her laptop. Placing all the tourist brochures and to go menus to the side to make a clean working space, she laid out her materials and grabbed her notebook and started to scribble down some initial impressions.

Firing up her computer, she intended to research the history of Puller Military Academy but gave into the temptation to see what she could find about the mad monk online.