I received a lot of positive feedback from my last post, where I included an excerpt of my novel, ‘Hidden Trails.’ Today, by request, here is the introduction and first couple paragraphs to the first ‘Ghost Town’ novel titled: ‘The Whiterock Incident Part I – The Journal.’ This book is the first that launches a nine part series that will leave you haunted for days after reading. Enjoy the first part of the novel and head over to www.leifericksonwriting.com where you can purchase the first three books in the ‘Ghost Town’ series.
Six persons have gone missing in as many weeks. In most places, this information would hardly raise an eyebrow, but in Whiterock, South Dakota, a farming town with a population of a scant eight hundred people, it draws much more attention. My name is Ethan Drew and I’m an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m being sent to Whiterock to investigate the disappearances. The bureau thought that our presence in the community would trigger the perp to flee, so I’m being sent in under cover. Coming from a rural background myself, I have been hired as a farmhand for one Doctor Victor Tesla, a former New York researcher for the military. Ten years ago, he was fired and moved to the country; he bought a farm and removed himself from the academic world. Much speculation has gone into what led to his departure, and why he would go to such extremes to get away from it, but that is not what my investigation will be into. I know little of the area, or the people there and there is not much information on the case. I also haven’t made any connections yet. I only have one thought on the matter: everybody’s a suspect. These are my notes, beginning upon my arrival in Whiterock, on Monday, June 17th, 2013.
The dew glistened in the early morning sun as I drove down the straight, narrow road. It had been at least two hours since I’d seen another car. The prairie was a sight of beauty: waves of green growing wheat stretching as far as the eye can see. The only things breaking the horizon were the houses and barns of the farmers; they are stewards of the land, simple folk in their own right, as dedicated to their work as to their religion. Mainly Lutheran’s here, mixed with a few Presbyterians and Catholics, but all are descendants of northern Europe. Swedes and Finns, they dot the land with their farms and pastures, towns and wheat. Only a few rivers break the fields, snaking their way towards Canada, their waters slowly moving along in the late spring. The spring Chinooks have given way to the still calms of the prairie summers. The intense heat will ripen the wheat, turning it from the grass green I see now to the amber waves we sing about.
A day’s drive west of Minneapolis, two hours south of Fargo, and a stone’s throw from both the Minnesota and North Dakota boarders, Whiterock, South Dakota sits in a valley along the Bois De Sioux River. A curious notion for a prairie, Whiterock is surrounded by a fifteen square mile, ten thousand acre forest formed by the artesian wells along the river. The forest, itself a local legend for all the goblins, imps, pixies, and demons that hide behind the trees, has always remained a beautiful sight in the flat prairie. The dark green trees rising above the horizon reminded me of the skyscrapers of my new home, however, I feel this natural jungle will be much easier to navigate than the concrete one. Instead of all manners of people walking about, I see deer, elk, moose, geese, loons, fox, minks, birds, and many other forms of animals living in harmony with their peaceful forest.