Lore - The Bell River Cult

Rain sawed at the tin roof of the roadside motel, hissing off the stuttering VACANCY sign and turning parking lot into dark soup. Inside, a fan droned on above a table ringed with coffee cups and ash trays, three strangers meeting for the first time under unconventional circumstances.   Cal Bishop spread Polaroids like a tarot: the Big South Fork swallowed by fog, the old tipple at Mine 18, an abandoned ghost town overgrown with neglect. “They keep saying its just kids falling down unexplored shafts in the mine,” he said. “Every time we go looking we just find the ruins of the old mining town. Always empty, even the bums avoid it.”   June Hart never named her agency but she seemed unusually well versed in espionage tactics. She worked the sink with a hair dryer, warming Budweiser bottle labels until they lifted clean. There was a whole assembly line next to her, nail glue, a fine applicator, and a six pack of non-alcoholic Olympia beer. “We'll use the 'college kids on break' cover to lower their guard,” she said. “I also have some marijuana that has the THC vaporized out.”   James Moss flipped a Zippo open and closed, watching the other two. "Just keep in mind we are hunting things that live off misdirection." He picked the bag up to the light and gave it a cautionary sniff, more out of habit than suspicion. "We should have a plan B once they stop thinking we are so funny."   The rain eased to a steady drum. Cal stared at the map where the blacktop gave up. 'Blue Heron - Mine 18'. Beyond that: a margin note in pencil - 'BELL HOLLOW?'. "Got it covered. Borrowed some thing from the evidence locker no one will miss til we get back." He lifted a faded duffel bag to the table, the zipper rolling back to a polite clatter of dark metal and oiled wood.   No backup. No official operation. They would be on their own once they crossed the threshold into the town that didn't exist. Cal was still convinced it was something rational. A hippie commune hiding out near the old ghost town, maybe even in the mine itself. He didn't want to hear the fringe theories James brought to the table of shapeshifters. June was playing devil's advocate to both and landing somewhere in the middle.   They killed the lights, stashed the Polaroids, and stepped into the wet dark. The rented VW van coughed to life, CB antenna tremoring. James had a whole theory about the astrological phases and their influence on finding the way in. It was hard to argue once they had a look at the dates in the casefiles of missing persons, so they planned their arrival meticulously.   As they approached the lone ferryman at the dock they almost forgot to hold their characters. Standing where the planks met the water, it was as if he was waiting for them, a warm smile frozen across his visage like a mask. A single lantern lit the cabin of his old trawler, a vessel distinctly out of place in both location and era. Waving a hand slowly as the van's headlights hit his form, none of them could quite put their finger on why the old man freaked them out so much.   "This... This might be it. Remember. Stupid college kids on summer break!" June said, trying to be reassuring despite the tingle they all had creeping up their spines.

They left the van where the gravel turned to dock. It wasn't driving onto that boat and it gave them a place to stash extra guns anyway. The ferryman looked like any old man working a tourist trap - polite, chatty, selling a sleepy town that “Just loves visitors!” The smile never moved. Something about it felt pinned on.   They clinked bottles and whooped like overgrown kids. The act came easy enough. They weren’t much older than the kids they were pretending to be and none of them figured themselves squares. June had even designed a faux love triangle to layer their cover: the holy trinity of social taboos any cult would salivate over in impressionable prospects. An interracial, polygamous, drug-abusing trio. How could they resist?   The ferryman reacted to none of it. Not when Cal pitched an empty into the water. Not when June sparked her fake joint. Not when James turned and relieved himself over the bow, asking for cheers. The old man just kept that gentle smile and the wheel straight as a spoke.   The far shore rose out of the fog like a postcard: whitewashed trim, swept porches, a painted vintage sign - BELL HOLLOW, Pop. 300. Cal almost slipped off the ramp, eyes wide. He recovered with a cheer and a tourist grin. “Never seen anything like this!” he blurted, raising his camera in question. The ferryman welcomed photos and directed them toward the bed-and-breakfast when they finished.   Out of earshot, Cal’s voice thinned. “It’s… the same town,” he said. “Same street, same ridgeline. But it’s… not in ruins.” He slid the wet Polaroids into his pocket. “This is… insane.”   “Keep it together,” June murmured. “We talk in the room.”   James remained quiet, putting his focus into acclimating himself with his surroundings. It was all built on a single road, just like the photos but with none of the neglect. It all looked old, sure, but it was clear a population of people had lived and worked here for quite some time. When they checked in he noticed a distinct lack of clocks and mirrors; even their room and the church tower had been stripped of them.   Downstairs, the proprietors were syrup-sweet. There’d be a festival in the morning - friendly competitions, recipes, a chance for newcomers to judge. Tourists especially welcome. The old woman pressed keys into their hands and promised an early breakfast on the house. Mixed news: the attention of three hundred people would make espionage tricky.   They took the room, bolted the door, and kept their voices low.   “I say you two go,” James said. “Go, but let me play hooky. I’ll slip out the back and start digging.” As far as he was concerned, they already had enough evidence. This town shouldn’t exist, and he knew the agency would decide it doesn’t for much longer. He wanted a chance to place the plastic explosives he’d brought without their knowledge. The less they knew, the better.   “Easy for you to say.” June prided herself on swaying a crowd, but she wasn’t sure about being bait. She glanced at Cal and sighed. “Don’t know if we’ll have a better shot.”   Cal sorted the fresh pictures against the ones he’d brought, comparing both to the old map. “Respectfully, I’ve got the closest thing to jurisdiction. And I’ve walked the uh... ‘real’ town. I’ll move faster.”   The rest of the night was a debate, friendly enough but edged, the two men trying to sway June, who sat in the middle with the deciding vote. She’d make it in the morning, after she’d had time to mentally balance the pros and cons.   When morning came, it didn’t arrive so much as collect. Light went from gray to grayer. The smell of warm bread slid under the door. A soft knock. A careful voice:   “Good morning! We brought you some muffins to start your day off right!”   June moved to intercept the room service, stopping at the latch and turning to the other two to confirm they were ready. Cal set the wig and straightened the rest of his disguise in the window’s reflection. Stoic like the calm before a storm, James tucked a 1911 into his belt and waited for June to call the plan.