Page 23 of Silent Bones (High Peaks Murder, Mystery and Crime Thrillers #7)

McKenzie wandered a few booths down, lured by a stand selling homemade jerky and trail markers. A man with a thick beard and a trucker hat was holding court with a small crowd.

“I’m telling you,” the man was saying, “three sets of eyes. Glowing. Red as fire. They weren’t deer, and they weren’t cats.”

McKenzie smirked. “And how much did those eyes charge for admission?”

The man didn’t blink. “I know what I saw. They circled us. Then vanished.”

Langley, overhearing, leaned toward Noah. “You laugh, but the false reports are useful. They often circle the truth. People misinterpret light, and sound, but where they report it? That matters. If enough folks see things in the same place, there’s usually a reason.”

“Like someone’s leaving markers,” Noah said.

“Or rerouting trails. Creating a story.”

Noah nodded slowly. “So this whole thing’s a stage?”

Langley tapped the photo again. “I would need to check that fur in a lab to verify but my instincts say it’s a stage with one hell of a budget.”

“How long would it take to test?”

“Not long. I will be in touch.”

“Thank you,” Noah said.

As the conversation tapered off, Noah felt Callie shift beside him. She was staring past the booths now, toward a gathering crowd near the main field.

She spoke without looking at him. “You don’t have to make it weird.”

He turned slightly. “Me? I’m not.”

She hesitated, arms folded tight against her chest. “Just… don’t think it meant something. Last night, I mean. I didn’t come there because—” She stopped. “I just needed air.”

Noah kept his voice level. “I won’t mention it if you don’t.”

That made her smile, just a little. “Good.”

A long beat passed. Neither moved. The crowd nearby began to grow louder, drawing attention.

“Come on,” she said, brushing past him. “Let’s go hear some bad howling.”

They walked toward the main clearing, following the swell of voices and the occasional shriek of feedback from a portable PA system. Rows of people had gathered around a makeshift stage set against the treeline, where a banner fluttered: SASQUATCH CALL COMPETITION – FINALS STARTING SOON.

A man in overalls stood onstage adjusting a mic, while two judges, one in a Bigfoot hoodie, the other with a clipboard, took notes and laughed.

A kid in a camo jacket stepped up, cupped his hands to his mouth, and let out a long, warbling howl that ended with a squeak. The crowd whooped and clapped.

A woman followed with a guttural scream that rattled the speakers. A baby nearby started crying. Noah winced.

“I want this on record,” McKenzie said, returning with a Sasquatch-shaped cookie. “If one of these people turns out to be the killer, I’m quitting and opening a bait shop.”

Callie arched a brow. “You don’t even fish.”

“I will if it means I never hear that noise again.”

The crowd parted slightly as a new name was announced. A familiar voice called out from backstage: “Let’s make some noise for Gone Squatchin’ himself, Mr. Ed Baxter!”

Noah turned toward the voice, eyes narrowing.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Callie muttered.

“Oh no, you should hear him,” Noah said.

Ed stepped onstage wearing a faux-fur vest and approached the mic like it was a sacred artifact.

He raised it, gave a dramatic nod to the judges, and unleashed a guttural, raspy howl that echoed across the clearing.

It was low and drawn-out, almost rhythmic.

It then cut sharp, followed by a deep, gravelly throat growl.

The audience erupted. Some laughed. Some clapped. One man with binoculars actually looked toward the woods.

Noah didn’t clap. He was still staring, brow furrowed.

Callie leaned in. “You recognize it?”

Noah didn’t answer.

But something in the back of his mind had clicked, a memory of one of the audio files recovered from the phone of one of the teens. A distorted, background noise they hadn’t been able to clean up completely.

Something that sounded… almost like that.

It wasn’t a match, not exactly.

But it was close enough .

Before he could say anything, it happened.

A sound drifted in from beyond the treeline, faint, stretched across the wind like an echo… but not an echo.

It was higher-pitched than Ed’s call. Longer. Less guttural, more drawn out, like someone imitating the call but from far away… or something else entirely.

The crowd froze.

A few people laughed nervously. One of the judges squinted toward the woods.

“Is that part of the act?” someone asked.

Another voice, a woman this time, said, “That didn’t sound like the other ones.”

Langley, a few paces behind Noah, turned his head slowly toward the trees. Even he wasn’t smiling now.

Noah scanned the crowd. Faces had turned. A few kids clung tighter to their parents. Somewhere, a vendor’s speaker continued to play low banjo music that now felt absurdly misplaced.

Callie muttered, “Tell me this is a setup.”

Noah didn’t answer. Whatever it was, animal, human, or prank, it had struck a nerve. The kind of sound that cut through noise and left silence in its wake.

Ed cleared his throat and raised his megaphone again, clearly trying to reclaim the stage. “Well now, looks like we’ve got some competition out there!” he called. “Maybe the big guy wants to win!”

The crowd laughed again, a little too loud this time.

But the tension didn’t fully break.

Back at the truck, dusk had fully settled in. The sun was gone, the clouds were low, and the light had taken on that gray-blue tint that made the pines look deeper than they really were.

McKenzie stuffed his cookie wrapper in his pocket and leaned against the side panel. “That’s the weirdest festival I’ve ever been to. And I once worked security at a Renaissance Faire during Mead Night.”

Noah didn’t respond. He stood there for another moment, arms tight, thoughts spiraling through everything they’d just seen and heard.

The fur.

The marks.

The mimicry.

The masks.

He turned toward the passenger side to open the door, and something caught his eye. A loose festival poster had torn free from a kiosk near the entrance. It fluttered in the breeze, half-stuck to the side of the trash bin, the corner flapping against the metal.

He walked over, peeled it off, and read the tagline in faded block letters: “YOU SEE WHAT YOU WANT TO SEE.”