1

The town of Flagstaff, Maine has a storied past. Nestled between spans of pine forests and in the center of the Dead River Valley, Flagstaff sits on the bank of a lake that once was not.  In the 1800s, the up-and-coming town housed around 700 people. They worked and lived in a close knit community. However, mother nature had other plans. In 1947, the town was completely flooded as a result of construction of the Long Falls Dam. Legends of the great flood were passed down through generations, almost most were greatly exaggerated. Some believed the flood was caused by evil spirits pushing back against the march of progress. Others believed it was a planned flooding by the state in order to increase tourism to the area. Regardless, knowledge of the flood had become as diluted as the houses that now rest below Flagstaff Lake. The new town, constructed in 1950, is home to over 2,000 permanent residents and around 3,000 tourists, hikers and campers each summer. Most folks travel to Flagstaff to escape the hussle and bussle of city life, others to lose themselves in the peaceful woods which are home to hiking trails that span for miles. The locals of Flagstaff are a friendly folk but superstitious to a fault. Ask any of the older locals about ghosts and monsters, and each one will have a story for you. The younger generations roll their eyes. Stories to keep them busy, they say. There’s not much to do in Flagstaff other than camp and work at one of the tourist traps. 

Flagstaff is located in Somerset County, a grouping of small towns spread out between miles and miles of forest. The county police spend most of their days catching teenagers smoking weed and dealing with neighbor disputes. It’s nearly spring in Flagstaff. The tourist season is just around the corner. The first, more daring hikers and campers are already exploring the woods and bringing life back to the sleepy town. 

It’s 10pm when Sheriff McGill is finishing up his patrol. He takes one last lap around the Flagstaff Forest campgrounds. He sees the embers of small fires slowly dying, the lights in campers going out. What he doesn’t see is William Brigs running full speed at his patrol car. His body slams heavy against the windshield, causing the Sheriff to slam the brakes hard. After a moment of self collection, he looks eye to eye with the man who is splayed, crying, on his windshield. He takes a moment to try to breathe, but he cannot. He is eye to eye with a fear he has never seen before in his 45 years on the force. 

A week later, you are all sitting in your basement office of an unremarkable government building. Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont are your districts and things have been quiet. There was a call about a missing dog, who was then found and replaced with a ghost dog. But this turned out to be just an elderly woman finding a dog who looked similar to her old mut, but with white fur. Your importance to the Beacon Society is apparent by your surroundings. You have four desks, old computers still running on Windows Vista, a coffee machine that makes something one could call coffee if they’re imaginative, a standing fan for the summer months and a space heater for the winter months. There is also a phone, a single white phone that hangs on the wall. This phone has only ring twice in your careers with the Society, a branch of a branch of a branch of the FBI. Once was a test call from HQ. The other, your first case. It’s been a long 7 months since you were all moved out to this new base and a long 6 since the last phone call. 

On this chilly March day, the phone rings. You all look at each other, unsure of what to do. One of you answers. 

It’s HQ. They have a new job for you, one that actually gets you out of the office. Hikers have gone missing in Flagstaff, Maine. You argue that this job could be handled by local authorities. You are corrected. 1 of 5 hikers has made it out of the woods, with no memories of what happened to his friends and a mysterious crystal in his pocket and the audio from a damaged video camera. 

That day, you pack your bags and head for Flagstaff, Maine.

2

As a somber organ hums in the background, family members in black clothing begin to enter the church. These are the early arrivals, the funeral doesn’t start for another 30 minutes. A middle-aged woman nods quietly at the priest and then at her own family. She turns to the priest. “Is it alright if I go up and say goodbye to dad first?”

The priest gives a small, comforting smile. “Of course, my child.” The woman turns back to her family, who have already scattered about the church. Her and the priest approach the closed casket. Her brow furrows.

“There must be some mistake,” she said as they arrived at the foot of the altar, “He asked for an open casket.”

The priest apologizes and moves to lift the hood of the casket. As he does, the woman lowers her eyes, which are beginning to well up with tears. She gathers her strength and nods silently to herself. Her eyes look back up. 

A scream rings out in the church. Within the somber silence, it sounds like the loudest noise ever made. Everyone jumps. The woman falls to her knees in tears. The priest rushes to her side, unsure of what had happened. As he places his hands on her shoulders, he sees her arm raise, a single finger pointing at the casket. The priest rises to his feet and sees something he did not expect. Nothing. The casket is empty.

3

It took them a few weeks to finally organize the trip so Thomas felt a wave of relief  when they all finally hit the road. The three cars left just before sundown, postponed by Sarah losing her phone and Philipe forgetting his hiking shoes. Thomas smiles at the chatter in the back seat, his friends playfully joking around and singing poorly to the music on the radio.

A joyous “woo” rings out in the car as the convoy passes the sign “Welcome to Flagstaff” and Thomas honks his horn a few time, causing a cascading effect of horn honking on the highway. As the three cars draw closer to their destination, talk of set up and placement begins. Philipe suggests setting up a fire first and then working on tents while Sarah suggests that the entire group take a shot before doing anything. The laughter rings out through the car until it slowly settles down.

Thomas’ eyes, once focused on the road, begin to flutter. He shakes his head a bit, wondering what happened to the energy of the 3 coffees he had that morning had gone. His eyes flutter a bit more, drawing him out of his drivers trance. It’s then that he notices that all conversation in the car has ceased. Sarah and Philipe have fallen into an eerie silence that is occasionally broken by a stray yawn. Thomas begins to yawn as well. He allows his eyes to flutter closed for a second. Then two. His eyes shoot back open as he nervously grips the wheel. He steals himself and blinks but the blink lasts too long. His eyes flutter open once more before the irresistible need for sleep overtakes him and the sound of metal meeting metal rings out in the night.