Some Halloween Fun for Chocobelle
Title: The Death Wagon of Calais
Genre: Man from UNCLE
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Something ancient rises from an old pond.
chocobell1212, I hope you have a little taste of New England ghost stories. Thanks for playing along and my thanks to Sparky for her beta and help.
Some people blamed it on swamp gas. Others thought it was because of Mercury being in retrograde while others blamed it on the storms roaring through the region. Whatever caused it, no one was ready for when the funeral wagon suddenly rose in the pond, complete with a coffin.
The fact that the pond that offered up this glimpse of the past abutted Mr. Waverly’s New England summer cottage was of more concern to his senior agents. When it came to their boss, UNCLE agents were notoriously lacking in any sense of humor.
The residents, Mr. and Mrs. Waverly and their grandchildren had been safely whisked back to New York, something Napoleon had insisted upon until they were satisfied there was nothing more to it. Thankfully, they had been attending a local carnival when it happened.
A recovery team had set up a tent on the edge of the old fishing pond and were slowly going through the remains. Napoleon ached to go down there, but he would be of no use. Likewise, he watched Illya glance longingly at the site from time to time, but he knew his place was in the cabin, trying to working through the finer points of transporting the find to the nearest facilities that could handle it.
From what the various members said, the condition went from pristine to ancient decay, the cold pond water had preserved it or destroyed it and it was the find of the century or a waste of their time.
Napoleon watched the glow of the lights from the front porch and glanced over as a cup of coffee magically appeared at his elbow.
“A penny for your thoughts.” Illya, dishtowel draped over on shoulder, stood there, grinning. “I thought you could use this. I know I can. Tomorrow, you do the dishes.”
“Thanks,” Napoleon said, accepting the cup. “This thing just keeps getting more and more weird.”
“How so?” Illya collapsed back into an Adirondack chair and propped his feet up on an accompanying table. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the cool pine-scented air.
“Who’s in the casket? Didn’t anyone miss him?”
“Presumably not enough to worry about following up with the funeral home.”
“I don’t know, Napoleon.” Illya took a large swallow of coffee. “Different places have different customs.”
“What about yours in Russia?”
Illya smiled, almost sadly. “We cover mirrors and stop clocks.”
“Why?”
“Our folklore states that mirrors are the gateway to the afterlife and the first person to see their reflection in a mirror immediately following a death is the next to die.”
“Make sense. And the clocks?” Napoleon settled into the chair beside him, still watching the lights.
‘It is supposed to make the passage of their loved one quicker to the afterlife.”
“Doesn’t hurt anyone on this side, either. Grief is not attractive.”
Illya chuckled at that. “I suppose you are right about that. The wagon is a bit of a mystery, though. You would think there would be some sort of tale because of this.”
“There’s very little else to do in small towns but spin a good tale or two, perhaps even parlay it into a local attraction and yet here there is nothing.” Napoleon finished his coffee and set the cup down. “I can remember a few from back home and I’m fairly certain that Baba Yaga wasn’t born of excitement and frivolity.”
This time Illya grinned and nodded. “Yes, yes, you are right. So, tell me about your haunted past.”
“Well, we had a few spots in town that we avoided, but the one that sticks in my mind is Camp Farnsworth up at Lake Fairlee. It had a sort of community hall and theatre called the Keushk -“
“Indian?”
“Very. Anyhow, it had its usual share of cold spots, but folks also said that if you were outside, you could see someone carrying a lamp inside and vice versa.”
“And you checked it out?”
“My folks didn’t have that kind of money. My uncle had a cabin near the south end of the lake, so we’d go there for a few days in the summer. It was as much of a vacation as my folks ever got.”
“And probably not much of a break at all for your mom.”
“You were right about that. She used to say, all the work of home without the benefit of electricity. She sure was happy when my uncle had it installed.”
“I bet she was. Just about as happy as I was tonight doing dishes.”
“Hey, I cooked.” Napoleon was indignant.
“You opened cans and heated stuff up, there’s a difference.”
“Funny. Mom used to say the same thing. Anyhow, it was late July and Dad decided to take us out on the lake. The mist was rolling in and everything had a sort of eerie feel to it. In fact, the whole day did.”
“And let me guess, you saw the lights.”
“Nope, we saw a huge battle between two groups. They rowed out into the middle of the lake and there was mayhem. Dad tucked us into a cove to keep us from harm’s way. Mom was terrified.”
Illya sat forward, obviously engaged. “So, what happened?”
“After a few minutes, we headed out again and nothing. There was no sign of anything. I was sure we’d see bodies or at least blood, but nothing. Dad took the boat to the very spot and nothing was there. .”
“Sounds like a battle between two rival forces.”
“Agreed, all that residue anger. If it had been just me, I could have blown it off, but Mom and Dad… well, that made it something else. They said it must have been from two of the camps from either side of the lake.”
“Did you ever investigate further?”
“We never spoke about it to anyone and I sort of let it go.”
“Until now?”
“Until now.” A breeze caught Illya’s hair and tousled it. “Wind is coming up. They said we might have a storm tonight.” He watched the lights at the discovery site go out. “Looks like they are packing it up for the night, too.”
“Huh, I thought they’d work through.”
“No matter. Mr. Waverly and his family are safe. We have the time.”
“As long as they tie everything down.”
“They know their job, Napoleon, just as we know ours.” The wind came up and made the pine trees sway. “Let’s get inside before we get blown away.”
Napoleon stared bleary-eyed at his reflection the next morning. He was a man who made a living racing from Point A to Point B and learning to sleep in the worst of conditions. Yet, last night, all he did was toss and turn. The storm roared overhead and he swore he heard trees crashing all around them. After an hour of tossing and turning, he finally gave up and quietly went downstairs. The room was chilly and he put another log on the fire before settling onto the much worn couch. He picked up a book and began to thumb through it before giving up and heading back to bed. Thunder and lightning savaged the sky and he found himself wishing he was back home, safely tucked away in his penthouse apartment.
Somehow, he managed to shave and not cut his throat doing it. That first cup of coffee was going to taste mighty fine. He bumped his way out of the bathroom, nearly colliding with a yawning Illya.
“You, too?”
“I don’t get it.” He didn’t bother to hide his tiredness. “I can sleep standing up in a muddy ditch, but there was no way I could sleep last night. It sounded like the trees were screaming. If it was bad for us, imagine what it must have been for the agents in the tent. All the real terror of the storm and a funeral wagon parked outside to boot.”
“Interesting thought.” He started down the hall, then paused. “Is there coffee?”
“I just started the pot. Give it five. I’m sure the guys down in the tent will want some.”
“I know I sure do.” Napoleon wasn’t really of the mind to share his coffee, at least not until he’d had a second cup. Illya shuffled to the table and dropped into a chair. He reached for the pot and Napoleon shot him a warning glare.
It didn’t deter Illya. “You need to work on your sharing skills.”
“I know, I know.” He pointed to the stove. “I started a second pot for them.”
Illya smiled and retreated into his own cup of coffee. For a long time, neither of them spoke until the beep of a communicator broke the silence.
“Kuryakin.”
Their boss’s voice made them both sit up a bit straighter. “How is the investigation coming, Mr. Kuryakin?”
“We had quite the storm last night, sir. The tent held up, but I wouldn’t be surprised is things were a bit waterlogged this morning. However, since it’s spent many years on the pond bed, I’m sure it won’t really matter.”
“Just get on with it, Mr. Kuryakin. My grandchildren are driving me a bit mad. It will be good to get back there.”
“Yes, sir, I will send you a progress report within the hour. Kuryakin out.” He finished his cup and reached for a plaid shirt to pull over his black tee shirt and, more importantly, his shoulder holster. He grabbed a stack of paper cups and the coffee pot. “I’ll be back.”
“What do you want for breakfast?”
“Something hot and not from a can.”
Napoleon managed a smile at that and watched his partner leave. With a sigh, he heaved himself to his feet and headed to the refrigerator. There was bacon and eggs on the top shelf and he pulled them out. He was just searching for a frying pan when he heard the back door open again.
“You’re too fast, I’m not ready. I…” He trailed off at Illya’s expression. “What’s wrong?”
“You need to come now and we need reinforcements.”
Napoleon made that call as he followed Illya from the house down to the grassy area in front of the pond. The tent looked as if the storm has taken its toll upon it, but what Napoleon saw was even worse. Bodies of agents strewn about like dolls and, even stranger, no sign of the funeral wagon.
“What the hell?” Napoleon didn’t swear much as a rule.
“Exactly my thoughts.”
The communicator going off made both of them jump. “Solo here.”
“We’re here, Napoleon, where do you want us?”
“Down by the pond. You’ll see the tent and we’re going to need a clean-up crew.”
Considering the carnage that awaited them, it hadn’t taken very much effort to convince Mr. Waverly to not return to the cabin. In fact, he didn’t even balk when Napoleon suggested someone else pack up their belongings for them.
Mr. Waverly sat quietly in an armchair and stared unseeing at the only real window in UNCLE headquarters. “I’m going to sell it,” he said, softly, as if afraid of the words.
“Sir?” Napoleon was busy mixing them drinks.
“The cabin.”
“Don’t you feel that’s a bit premature, sir? We’re still in the early days of our investigation. THRUSH--”
“As much as it shocks me to say this, THRUSH had nothing to do with what happened to those poor unfortunate agents. There was something more sinister at work.”
Illya arrived at that moment, carrying an armful of documents. “This is all that we recovered from the crime scene, Napoleon. Would you believe that not one photo of the funeral wagon survived?”
“No.”
“Yes.” They both looked at Mr. Waverly, expectation in their expressions. “I feared it would come to this, but I thought it was just hogwash.”
“What was hogwash, sir?”
“The Death Wagon of Calais.” The pipe in his hand trembled slightly and Napoleon caught it, steadying it. “I had thought… what a fool I was. I, alone, am guilty of those deaths just as surely as if I’d pulled the trigger.”
When it became apparent that he wasn’t doing to add anything to that, Illya set down the files, poured himself a double scotch and settled on the sofa. It wasn’t built for comfort, but that suited him.
“Sir?” Napoleon’s tone was gentle, coaxing. “What is the Death Wagon of Calais?”
After a long moment, the older man began to speak, “A ghost story my family used to tell me. They said there was a haunted funeral wagon. There was a violent storm and the wagon was swept off the road and into the lake. The man inside was despised by the town and the divers refused to go into the water to rescue his corpse. They said the storm made recovery too dangerous, but his widow disagreed. She went into the pond, trying to save him and nearly drowned. Even then, no one would help her. His widow was then said to put a curse on the town. Anyone who saw it would die a terrible death. We thought it was designed to keep us inside and away from the pond after dark and it worked. My sister and I grew up terrified of it, but you grow up and scoff at the misbeliefs of your youth. I never even mentioned it to my wife. Balderdash and silliness. Now, I wonder…”
“Yet we heard nothing of this legend when we were checking out this place,” Illya said quietly. “I even went through the old issues of the newspaper.”
“The locals decided to let the legend die. It wasn’t the sort that inspired the local tourist trade. The few who did hear of it were met with a wall of silence. It was thought best to just let it die and not give the Old Man the glory of having become the town’s savior.”
“Savoir?”
“People flocking there because of the legend, those who wanted to prove or disprove it.”
“We’ll never know, sir, but I think your decision to sell is the right one. Best to err on the side of caution.” Napoleon thought back to a battle, one of fire and blood and nothing. “No use taking chances.”
Genre: Man from UNCLE
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Something ancient rises from an old pond.
chocobell1212, I hope you have a little taste of New England ghost stories. Thanks for playing along and my thanks to Sparky for her beta and help.
Some people blamed it on swamp gas. Others thought it was because of Mercury being in retrograde while others blamed it on the storms roaring through the region. Whatever caused it, no one was ready for when the funeral wagon suddenly rose in the pond, complete with a coffin.
The fact that the pond that offered up this glimpse of the past abutted Mr. Waverly’s New England summer cottage was of more concern to his senior agents. When it came to their boss, UNCLE agents were notoriously lacking in any sense of humor.
The residents, Mr. and Mrs. Waverly and their grandchildren had been safely whisked back to New York, something Napoleon had insisted upon until they were satisfied there was nothing more to it. Thankfully, they had been attending a local carnival when it happened.
A recovery team had set up a tent on the edge of the old fishing pond and were slowly going through the remains. Napoleon ached to go down there, but he would be of no use. Likewise, he watched Illya glance longingly at the site from time to time, but he knew his place was in the cabin, trying to working through the finer points of transporting the find to the nearest facilities that could handle it.
From what the various members said, the condition went from pristine to ancient decay, the cold pond water had preserved it or destroyed it and it was the find of the century or a waste of their time.
Napoleon watched the glow of the lights from the front porch and glanced over as a cup of coffee magically appeared at his elbow.
“A penny for your thoughts.” Illya, dishtowel draped over on shoulder, stood there, grinning. “I thought you could use this. I know I can. Tomorrow, you do the dishes.”
“Thanks,” Napoleon said, accepting the cup. “This thing just keeps getting more and more weird.”
“How so?” Illya collapsed back into an Adirondack chair and propped his feet up on an accompanying table. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the cool pine-scented air.
“Who’s in the casket? Didn’t anyone miss him?”
“Presumably not enough to worry about following up with the funeral home.”
“I don’t know, Napoleon.” Illya took a large swallow of coffee. “Different places have different customs.”
“What about yours in Russia?”
Illya smiled, almost sadly. “We cover mirrors and stop clocks.”
“Why?”
“Our folklore states that mirrors are the gateway to the afterlife and the first person to see their reflection in a mirror immediately following a death is the next to die.”
“Make sense. And the clocks?” Napoleon settled into the chair beside him, still watching the lights.
‘It is supposed to make the passage of their loved one quicker to the afterlife.”
“Doesn’t hurt anyone on this side, either. Grief is not attractive.”
Illya chuckled at that. “I suppose you are right about that. The wagon is a bit of a mystery, though. You would think there would be some sort of tale because of this.”
“There’s very little else to do in small towns but spin a good tale or two, perhaps even parlay it into a local attraction and yet here there is nothing.” Napoleon finished his coffee and set the cup down. “I can remember a few from back home and I’m fairly certain that Baba Yaga wasn’t born of excitement and frivolity.”
This time Illya grinned and nodded. “Yes, yes, you are right. So, tell me about your haunted past.”
“Well, we had a few spots in town that we avoided, but the one that sticks in my mind is Camp Farnsworth up at Lake Fairlee. It had a sort of community hall and theatre called the Keushk -“
“Indian?”
“Very. Anyhow, it had its usual share of cold spots, but folks also said that if you were outside, you could see someone carrying a lamp inside and vice versa.”
“And you checked it out?”
“My folks didn’t have that kind of money. My uncle had a cabin near the south end of the lake, so we’d go there for a few days in the summer. It was as much of a vacation as my folks ever got.”
“And probably not much of a break at all for your mom.”
“You were right about that. She used to say, all the work of home without the benefit of electricity. She sure was happy when my uncle had it installed.”
“I bet she was. Just about as happy as I was tonight doing dishes.”
“Hey, I cooked.” Napoleon was indignant.
“You opened cans and heated stuff up, there’s a difference.”
“Funny. Mom used to say the same thing. Anyhow, it was late July and Dad decided to take us out on the lake. The mist was rolling in and everything had a sort of eerie feel to it. In fact, the whole day did.”
“And let me guess, you saw the lights.”
“Nope, we saw a huge battle between two groups. They rowed out into the middle of the lake and there was mayhem. Dad tucked us into a cove to keep us from harm’s way. Mom was terrified.”
Illya sat forward, obviously engaged. “So, what happened?”
“After a few minutes, we headed out again and nothing. There was no sign of anything. I was sure we’d see bodies or at least blood, but nothing. Dad took the boat to the very spot and nothing was there. .”
“Sounds like a battle between two rival forces.”
“Agreed, all that residue anger. If it had been just me, I could have blown it off, but Mom and Dad… well, that made it something else. They said it must have been from two of the camps from either side of the lake.”
“Did you ever investigate further?”
“We never spoke about it to anyone and I sort of let it go.”
“Until now?”
“Until now.” A breeze caught Illya’s hair and tousled it. “Wind is coming up. They said we might have a storm tonight.” He watched the lights at the discovery site go out. “Looks like they are packing it up for the night, too.”
“Huh, I thought they’d work through.”
“No matter. Mr. Waverly and his family are safe. We have the time.”
“As long as they tie everything down.”
“They know their job, Napoleon, just as we know ours.” The wind came up and made the pine trees sway. “Let’s get inside before we get blown away.”
Napoleon stared bleary-eyed at his reflection the next morning. He was a man who made a living racing from Point A to Point B and learning to sleep in the worst of conditions. Yet, last night, all he did was toss and turn. The storm roared overhead and he swore he heard trees crashing all around them. After an hour of tossing and turning, he finally gave up and quietly went downstairs. The room was chilly and he put another log on the fire before settling onto the much worn couch. He picked up a book and began to thumb through it before giving up and heading back to bed. Thunder and lightning savaged the sky and he found himself wishing he was back home, safely tucked away in his penthouse apartment.
Somehow, he managed to shave and not cut his throat doing it. That first cup of coffee was going to taste mighty fine. He bumped his way out of the bathroom, nearly colliding with a yawning Illya.
“You, too?”
“I don’t get it.” He didn’t bother to hide his tiredness. “I can sleep standing up in a muddy ditch, but there was no way I could sleep last night. It sounded like the trees were screaming. If it was bad for us, imagine what it must have been for the agents in the tent. All the real terror of the storm and a funeral wagon parked outside to boot.”
“Interesting thought.” He started down the hall, then paused. “Is there coffee?”
“I just started the pot. Give it five. I’m sure the guys down in the tent will want some.”
“I know I sure do.” Napoleon wasn’t really of the mind to share his coffee, at least not until he’d had a second cup. Illya shuffled to the table and dropped into a chair. He reached for the pot and Napoleon shot him a warning glare.
It didn’t deter Illya. “You need to work on your sharing skills.”
“I know, I know.” He pointed to the stove. “I started a second pot for them.”
Illya smiled and retreated into his own cup of coffee. For a long time, neither of them spoke until the beep of a communicator broke the silence.
“Kuryakin.”
Their boss’s voice made them both sit up a bit straighter. “How is the investigation coming, Mr. Kuryakin?”
“We had quite the storm last night, sir. The tent held up, but I wouldn’t be surprised is things were a bit waterlogged this morning. However, since it’s spent many years on the pond bed, I’m sure it won’t really matter.”
“Just get on with it, Mr. Kuryakin. My grandchildren are driving me a bit mad. It will be good to get back there.”
“Yes, sir, I will send you a progress report within the hour. Kuryakin out.” He finished his cup and reached for a plaid shirt to pull over his black tee shirt and, more importantly, his shoulder holster. He grabbed a stack of paper cups and the coffee pot. “I’ll be back.”
“What do you want for breakfast?”
“Something hot and not from a can.”
Napoleon managed a smile at that and watched his partner leave. With a sigh, he heaved himself to his feet and headed to the refrigerator. There was bacon and eggs on the top shelf and he pulled them out. He was just searching for a frying pan when he heard the back door open again.
“You’re too fast, I’m not ready. I…” He trailed off at Illya’s expression. “What’s wrong?”
“You need to come now and we need reinforcements.”
Napoleon made that call as he followed Illya from the house down to the grassy area in front of the pond. The tent looked as if the storm has taken its toll upon it, but what Napoleon saw was even worse. Bodies of agents strewn about like dolls and, even stranger, no sign of the funeral wagon.
“What the hell?” Napoleon didn’t swear much as a rule.
“Exactly my thoughts.”
The communicator going off made both of them jump. “Solo here.”
“We’re here, Napoleon, where do you want us?”
“Down by the pond. You’ll see the tent and we’re going to need a clean-up crew.”
Considering the carnage that awaited them, it hadn’t taken very much effort to convince Mr. Waverly to not return to the cabin. In fact, he didn’t even balk when Napoleon suggested someone else pack up their belongings for them.
Mr. Waverly sat quietly in an armchair and stared unseeing at the only real window in UNCLE headquarters. “I’m going to sell it,” he said, softly, as if afraid of the words.
“Sir?” Napoleon was busy mixing them drinks.
“The cabin.”
“Don’t you feel that’s a bit premature, sir? We’re still in the early days of our investigation. THRUSH--”
“As much as it shocks me to say this, THRUSH had nothing to do with what happened to those poor unfortunate agents. There was something more sinister at work.”
Illya arrived at that moment, carrying an armful of documents. “This is all that we recovered from the crime scene, Napoleon. Would you believe that not one photo of the funeral wagon survived?”
“No.”
“Yes.” They both looked at Mr. Waverly, expectation in their expressions. “I feared it would come to this, but I thought it was just hogwash.”
“What was hogwash, sir?”
“The Death Wagon of Calais.” The pipe in his hand trembled slightly and Napoleon caught it, steadying it. “I had thought… what a fool I was. I, alone, am guilty of those deaths just as surely as if I’d pulled the trigger.”
When it became apparent that he wasn’t doing to add anything to that, Illya set down the files, poured himself a double scotch and settled on the sofa. It wasn’t built for comfort, but that suited him.
“Sir?” Napoleon’s tone was gentle, coaxing. “What is the Death Wagon of Calais?”
After a long moment, the older man began to speak, “A ghost story my family used to tell me. They said there was a haunted funeral wagon. There was a violent storm and the wagon was swept off the road and into the lake. The man inside was despised by the town and the divers refused to go into the water to rescue his corpse. They said the storm made recovery too dangerous, but his widow disagreed. She went into the pond, trying to save him and nearly drowned. Even then, no one would help her. His widow was then said to put a curse on the town. Anyone who saw it would die a terrible death. We thought it was designed to keep us inside and away from the pond after dark and it worked. My sister and I grew up terrified of it, but you grow up and scoff at the misbeliefs of your youth. I never even mentioned it to my wife. Balderdash and silliness. Now, I wonder…”
“Yet we heard nothing of this legend when we were checking out this place,” Illya said quietly. “I even went through the old issues of the newspaper.”
“The locals decided to let the legend die. It wasn’t the sort that inspired the local tourist trade. The few who did hear of it were met with a wall of silence. It was thought best to just let it die and not give the Old Man the glory of having become the town’s savior.”
“Savoir?”
“People flocking there because of the legend, those who wanted to prove or disprove it.”
“We’ll never know, sir, but I think your decision to sell is the right one. Best to err on the side of caution.” Napoleon thought back to a battle, one of fire and blood and nothing. “No use taking chances.”