Drake Storm: Path of Spirits
“Yes, there are many evil spirits roaming the coastline, the Haints and Boo Hags. Those are the most troublesome. There are many that say Haints and Hags cannot hurt a human. I have seen evidence that they can. These are not friendly ghosts."
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Drake Storm, full-blooded member of the mighty Catawba Nation and former Ultra Elite Special Forces Operator is intent on finding his missing niece. While on a Search and Rescue operation, Drake and Julie, a new team member, discover an ancient travel portal used by Catawba Warriors and suspects it is being used by human traffickers.
Drake gets assistance from a Cherokee Warrior Spirit who reveals that his new, red-haired, grey eyed, team member has a long ancestry to Native Americans. To help her discover her heritage, they enlist the services of a local Gullah Root Doctor who reveals information about Julie’s heritage, and Drake’s abducted niece. Working with Special Operations friends, Ancient Spirits, a wise old man, and a Gullah Root Doctor, Drake stops the human trafficking operation. American Spirit is strong; whether living or dead. |
Sample Drake Storm, Path of Spirits…
We arrive at the Horseshoe Trail parking area, which is small and only has room for three or four vehicles. It is somewhat secluded off the highway, my truck being the only vehicle here. I park on the side where there is a little shade, so Julie won’t be sitting in the hot sun. “I am taking a radio with me and you have one here in the truck. They are both set to SAR-1.”
Julie responds, “I have another idea. I’ll go with you. Better for some deputy to find an empty truck, rather than me sitting in one.”
“Julie, I cannot ask you to go with me. It could be dangerous.”
“More dangerous than me sitting in a truck alone, in an area known to be rife with human trafficking? Besides, you didn’t ask,” she counters with the response I expected.
“Good point.” I reach into my console and hand her my BUG. “The only backup gun I have with me is a Glock 33 chambered in 357 SIG. Will that work?” I ask.
“Absolutely,” she replies with a smile and a devious twinkle in her eyes.
“Let’s keep the chatter to a minimum, but if something comes up, whistle,” I instruct.
“Whistle? You mean like a catcall? Or just a few lines of ‘Whistle While You Work,’” she asks sarcastically, then begins to whistle the song.
“No, like a Whip-o-will or Bob White, unless you can replicate a Cardinal or Robin? You are a country girl, I’m certain you know those calls,” I state looking at her and realizing she is yanking my chain.
“Of course! Damn Drake. If you’re not going to feed me, the least you can do is laugh at my jokes,” she teases. “How long to get to the substation?”
“According to the GPS it is about a kilometer from here, maybe a little more, so maybe 15 minutes, depending on the terrain and the direction we decide to approach,” I reply.
We take the hiking trail for a few hundred meters, then head north, northwest. We approach from behind the substation and have an excellent view of the parking area. The door to the substation building is on the opposite side, so we work our way around towards the front. There are two windows in the building, but they are so small, I cannot tell who is in the building, if anyone. It could be Thompson’s men, human trafficking victims, or both.
Julie is ten meters to my left and a little ahead of me. We are moving slowly when she starts acting peculiar, turning her head from side to side as if she is looking at something; as if something on either side of her is competing for her attention.
“Are you ok?”
“Yeah. Drake? Do you hear that?” she asks with a puzzled tone in her voice. I stop and listen intently, not hearing anything but the rustling of the wind in the trees and crunching leaves underfoot.
“I don’t hear anything out of the usual,” I say, but she doesn’t respond. I walk over to her and I do hear something. Voices. Voices that are not earthly. Snippets of someone speaking, but I cannot understand what they are saying. It’s like a vehicle passing and you hear a few jumbled syllables from the occupants. I step back a few paces and lose the sounds. I walk back to her, and the voices return.
Looking to my right I see a natural opening in the trees; a hallway of sorts going through the forest. It isn’t a hiking trail or even a critter trail; there isn’t a defined path. This is a lane, arrow-straight that is free of tree saplings, of limbs protruding into the path from the surrounding trees, no fallen trees or underbrush. I realize we are standing at the edge of the Path of Spirits.
I gently take Julie’s arm. “Julie, let's backtrack a few meters and get out of this area.” She still doesn’t acknowledge me, but we both ease back about three meters.
“That was the weirdest thing. I kept thinking I heard voices and wind, but the wind sounded odd. Different than the breeze here, the sound was much louder. Did you hear anything?”
“I heard the wind in the trees. Maybe it was just some trees bending and creaking,” I reply, knowing she wasn’t going to accept that answer. The look she gave me confirms it.
I remember my grandfather, Fighting Bear, talking about the Paths. When I would visit him, he would talk to me in our native Catawba language. I was young, so much of what he spoke I didn’t understand, but some of it stuck. I was eager to learn of the Catawba ways, their stories and traditions. The Paths of Spirits were a means to travel in an altered timeframe. You cannot be seen by eyes, but you can be heard, if one knows how to listen. The wildlife can go silent, or start singing and chirping; trees creek and limbs moan. Nature acts peculiarly. It's more a sixth sense, but again, one has to be familiar with how to listen. Catawba warriors used them to attack their enemies. This is why they were known to be fierce warriors. They used the Path of Spirits to surprise their opponents.
There is a story of old, about our people being herded like animals to Oklahoma, on the Trail of Tears. A Catawba was being pursued by the Army, and just as the soldiers were firing their rifles, he and a friend of the Creek tribe found a Path of Spirits. Joining hands, they ran into the Path and were projected to safety. They used the Paths and helped many escape the Trail of Tears. Throughout time, others have tried to use the Paths but did not understand their power or that one was moving through the fringes of a world of other life forces, both good and evil. The Catawba knew to speak the Passage of Protection to The Creator, before entering the Spirit Path but the others didn't and would allow bad spirits to leave their realm, and enter ours. What baffles me now is how Julie can detect the Spirit Path. There is more to this young lady than even she is aware.
“Drake. What the hell was that?” She pauses, waiting for me to respond. “You know, don’t you. You know what that was back there,” she concludes.
I am at a loss for words. This isn’t the time or place to go into the details of ancient Catawba mystics.
“It seems we have stumbled into a sacred Shawnee burial ground or possibly the site of a council house where the medicine man practiced. Nothing to be alarmed over. Nothing that will harm us,” I tell her, hoping it is enough to appease her until I can talk to Fighting Bear and learn more about them.
“Are you sure? Because you had to think a long time to come up with that answer,” she asks with her now familiar hint of sarcasm.
I thought I formulated that response rather quickly. Guess not.
“Can we discuss this at a more appropriate time? We need to concentrate on why we are here. This is potentially very dangerous territory.”
“Sure. Promise? Because I’ll hold you to it,” is her stern response.
“Promise,” I reply. Once I find out exactly what it is. I look over at Julie and can sense she is still a little shaken.
“Julie, we will talk about what you saw and heard back there.”
“I’m ok Drake.” Julie looks at me with understanding eyes. “I won’t mention that to anyone. I saw some pretty strange crap in Afghanistan, but nothing that strange.”
“I believe we just stumbled upon a Path of Spirits. They are like a gateway or a path through the Spirit World where one can move undetected from one place to another in the world of the living.”
“Oh, ok. That explains everything,” Julie responds with a big smile and a heavy dose of sarcasm. She pauses for a moment, then adds, “You’re kidding, right?”
“I never kid about the spirits I encounter,” I reply.
We arrive at the Horseshoe Trail parking area, which is small and only has room for three or four vehicles. It is somewhat secluded off the highway, my truck being the only vehicle here. I park on the side where there is a little shade, so Julie won’t be sitting in the hot sun. “I am taking a radio with me and you have one here in the truck. They are both set to SAR-1.”
Julie responds, “I have another idea. I’ll go with you. Better for some deputy to find an empty truck, rather than me sitting in one.”
“Julie, I cannot ask you to go with me. It could be dangerous.”
“More dangerous than me sitting in a truck alone, in an area known to be rife with human trafficking? Besides, you didn’t ask,” she counters with the response I expected.
“Good point.” I reach into my console and hand her my BUG. “The only backup gun I have with me is a Glock 33 chambered in 357 SIG. Will that work?” I ask.
“Absolutely,” she replies with a smile and a devious twinkle in her eyes.
“Let’s keep the chatter to a minimum, but if something comes up, whistle,” I instruct.
“Whistle? You mean like a catcall? Or just a few lines of ‘Whistle While You Work,’” she asks sarcastically, then begins to whistle the song.
“No, like a Whip-o-will or Bob White, unless you can replicate a Cardinal or Robin? You are a country girl, I’m certain you know those calls,” I state looking at her and realizing she is yanking my chain.
“Of course! Damn Drake. If you’re not going to feed me, the least you can do is laugh at my jokes,” she teases. “How long to get to the substation?”
“According to the GPS it is about a kilometer from here, maybe a little more, so maybe 15 minutes, depending on the terrain and the direction we decide to approach,” I reply.
We take the hiking trail for a few hundred meters, then head north, northwest. We approach from behind the substation and have an excellent view of the parking area. The door to the substation building is on the opposite side, so we work our way around towards the front. There are two windows in the building, but they are so small, I cannot tell who is in the building, if anyone. It could be Thompson’s men, human trafficking victims, or both.
Julie is ten meters to my left and a little ahead of me. We are moving slowly when she starts acting peculiar, turning her head from side to side as if she is looking at something; as if something on either side of her is competing for her attention.
“Are you ok?”
“Yeah. Drake? Do you hear that?” she asks with a puzzled tone in her voice. I stop and listen intently, not hearing anything but the rustling of the wind in the trees and crunching leaves underfoot.
“I don’t hear anything out of the usual,” I say, but she doesn’t respond. I walk over to her and I do hear something. Voices. Voices that are not earthly. Snippets of someone speaking, but I cannot understand what they are saying. It’s like a vehicle passing and you hear a few jumbled syllables from the occupants. I step back a few paces and lose the sounds. I walk back to her, and the voices return.
Looking to my right I see a natural opening in the trees; a hallway of sorts going through the forest. It isn’t a hiking trail or even a critter trail; there isn’t a defined path. This is a lane, arrow-straight that is free of tree saplings, of limbs protruding into the path from the surrounding trees, no fallen trees or underbrush. I realize we are standing at the edge of the Path of Spirits.
I gently take Julie’s arm. “Julie, let's backtrack a few meters and get out of this area.” She still doesn’t acknowledge me, but we both ease back about three meters.
“That was the weirdest thing. I kept thinking I heard voices and wind, but the wind sounded odd. Different than the breeze here, the sound was much louder. Did you hear anything?”
“I heard the wind in the trees. Maybe it was just some trees bending and creaking,” I reply, knowing she wasn’t going to accept that answer. The look she gave me confirms it.
I remember my grandfather, Fighting Bear, talking about the Paths. When I would visit him, he would talk to me in our native Catawba language. I was young, so much of what he spoke I didn’t understand, but some of it stuck. I was eager to learn of the Catawba ways, their stories and traditions. The Paths of Spirits were a means to travel in an altered timeframe. You cannot be seen by eyes, but you can be heard, if one knows how to listen. The wildlife can go silent, or start singing and chirping; trees creek and limbs moan. Nature acts peculiarly. It's more a sixth sense, but again, one has to be familiar with how to listen. Catawba warriors used them to attack their enemies. This is why they were known to be fierce warriors. They used the Path of Spirits to surprise their opponents.
There is a story of old, about our people being herded like animals to Oklahoma, on the Trail of Tears. A Catawba was being pursued by the Army, and just as the soldiers were firing their rifles, he and a friend of the Creek tribe found a Path of Spirits. Joining hands, they ran into the Path and were projected to safety. They used the Paths and helped many escape the Trail of Tears. Throughout time, others have tried to use the Paths but did not understand their power or that one was moving through the fringes of a world of other life forces, both good and evil. The Catawba knew to speak the Passage of Protection to The Creator, before entering the Spirit Path but the others didn't and would allow bad spirits to leave their realm, and enter ours. What baffles me now is how Julie can detect the Spirit Path. There is more to this young lady than even she is aware.
“Drake. What the hell was that?” She pauses, waiting for me to respond. “You know, don’t you. You know what that was back there,” she concludes.
I am at a loss for words. This isn’t the time or place to go into the details of ancient Catawba mystics.
“It seems we have stumbled into a sacred Shawnee burial ground or possibly the site of a council house where the medicine man practiced. Nothing to be alarmed over. Nothing that will harm us,” I tell her, hoping it is enough to appease her until I can talk to Fighting Bear and learn more about them.
“Are you sure? Because you had to think a long time to come up with that answer,” she asks with her now familiar hint of sarcasm.
I thought I formulated that response rather quickly. Guess not.
“Can we discuss this at a more appropriate time? We need to concentrate on why we are here. This is potentially very dangerous territory.”
“Sure. Promise? Because I’ll hold you to it,” is her stern response.
“Promise,” I reply. Once I find out exactly what it is. I look over at Julie and can sense she is still a little shaken.
“Julie, we will talk about what you saw and heard back there.”
“I’m ok Drake.” Julie looks at me with understanding eyes. “I won’t mention that to anyone. I saw some pretty strange crap in Afghanistan, but nothing that strange.”
“I believe we just stumbled upon a Path of Spirits. They are like a gateway or a path through the Spirit World where one can move undetected from one place to another in the world of the living.”
“Oh, ok. That explains everything,” Julie responds with a big smile and a heavy dose of sarcasm. She pauses for a moment, then adds, “You’re kidding, right?”
“I never kid about the spirits I encounter,” I reply.
My debut novel, "Drake Storm Path of Spirits" is now available in eBook and paperback from these great retailers!
Amazon - Paperback & Kindle
https://www.amazon.com/author/drake_storm_path_of_spirits
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Amazon - Paperback & Kindle
https://www.amazon.com/author/drake_storm_path_of_spirits
Smashwords - Nook and other Ebooks
https://bit.ly/SmashwordsDrakeStormPathOfSpirits