A sneak peek of the Monster of Loon Lake

Chapter One

Deep, dark, and disturbed.

Seth Boyd leaned over the tour boat’s railing and stared down into the bottomless water of Lake Superior’s southern shore. He’d long theorized that this very spot was the sanctuary for a mythical—and all too real—creature he’d hunted since childhood. Over the past six months, the legend had transformed him from small-town printshop owner to minor internet sensation.

His self-published memoir, about his search for Soupy, the Lake Superior monster, had taken off thanks to social media. He’d long hoped once others learned about his hunt, he’d find a community of enthusiasts eager to engage. Everyone wanted a little magic. And he was in the position of sparking some wizardry, no wand required. Sharing his journey, including his successes and failures, connected his very particular mission with the broader world. Or, at least, that was what the morning TV news anchor said. He wasn’t sure if she meant it or just read it off the teleprompter.

The attention couldn’t steal his focus. He wouldn’t let anything deter him, ever. And especially not on a day like today, when the surface of the water was calm. Under a bright-blue sky, nothing seemed amiss. If an ancient beast could survive for millennia and remain hidden, these coordinates had to be the spot. Seth had dubbed the location the Timber Triangle. The area wreaked havoc on magnetic fields and had destroyed many nautical—and technological—devices. Storms popped up in the local area with sudden, shocking severity. A shipwreck had recently been located, and its treasure, a shipment of whole timbers logged during the nineteenth century now worth a hefty six figures, had been recovered.

On a clear day, the lake was picturesque and still as glass. He had an unobstructed view into the water. But it was fathoms deep, and visibility didn’t extend far at this spot. He waited, willing a sighting. The mosasaurus did not surface.

“Until next time, friend,” he murmured into the wind, turning away from the microphone he held.

The tour boat began its turn back into the channel leading to Loon Lake, the tiny offshoot of the greatest body of freshwater in the world. The tight-knit community along the shore survived and thrived during its hundred-plus years of existence because of its fundamental belief in caring for each other like family. Now, during the summer’s big 150th celebration, that pride and spirit were on full display.

He faced the eager crowd of tourists and raised the microphone. “Sorry, folks. Soupy prefers overcast skies. But don’t let our uneventful tour deter you from your own sightings.” He pointed to the log cabin at the top of a hill. “Our museum is a prime spot for observation, as is the newly reopened sawmill.” He swung his arm to the other side of the lakeshore.

“If Soupy is in the lake, wouldn’t he be too large to hide?” A woman called.

Squinting, Seth spotted the lady near the railing. With a baseball cap pulled low, her features were hidden. Obscured from view. Like a certain lake monster.

“An interesting question. Yes, a mosasaurus could reach up to fifty feet in length. Some major motion pictures exaggerated the size difference between man and reptile,” he said into the microphone, running a hand through his shaggy blond hair.

The tour group chuckled in unison.

“But other smaller mosasaurs called Phosphorosaurus, theorized to be diurnal hunters in deep water, are another option.”

“What do you think about the wormhole theory?” A man asked, shouting.

A few in the crowd sniggered and shook their heads.

Seth wanted to encourage, not dismiss, the outlandish question outright. He didn’t mind wild asks. Interacting with folks was a highlight of the tours, and he hoped his responses showed his respect and appreciation. But at the moment, he was drawing a blank. “The wormhole theory?” he repeated, stalling for a few seconds.

“Yeah, like a shortcut between the modern world and ancient times,” the man explained.

Since appearing on a national morning TV show, Seth had been inundated with tips and theories on his website. Most recently, a podcast theorized that the presence of quartz and other minerals indicated the potential for time travel. “I have heard it. Our shores are rich with mineral deposits, including granite. It remains a possibility, but I suspect the prevalence of iron ore and copper inhibits any rips in the space-time continuum. And I think the distance between the shores prevents a Casimir plate from occurring.”

The man nodded.

Seth had only begun leading tours of the lake a few weeks ago and was open to all suggestions. Thus far, he’d heard only positive reviews. He loved sharing his passion with interested people, and the response encouraged him.

“Back in the day,” Seth said. “Strange occurrences were reported with some regularity. Fish populations have boomed. Odd waves were spotted near the mouth of the channel. It wasn’t until I started logging what I had seen that an official record was established.”

A young boy raised his hand.

“Yes?” Seth asked.

The boy jumped to his feet. “My dad says back in the day means the nineties.”

A collective chuckle sounded on the deck.

Seth smiled. “Yes. Back in the day means the nineties for some. For me, I’m talking about the early years of this new millennium.”

“I saw a shark,” the boy said. He pointed toward the railing behind Seth with animation, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Could Soupy be a shark?”

Seth appreciated the kid’s enthusiasm and hated to burst his bubble. “Sharks can’t live in freshwater lakes. It’s a good idea but impossible. You might have seen a large fish.”

The boat slowed as it neared the dock.

“Thank you again for your time and attention. I am happy to welcome all of you into the Society of Soupy. You are hereby inducted and honorarily deputized to conduct your own scientific research. Remember to report anything unusual via the online form.”

The crowd clapped.

Seth bowed, hiding his flushed cheeks for a second. He wasn’t used to receiving attention. Life in a small town meant never really standing out or surprising anyone. That was okay. He wasn’t a flashy, look-at-me person. But he didn’t shy away from what his newfound fame had done—and could do.

Getting answers about the elusive beast became more of a possibility with every article and interview. Finding Soupy was his life’s work. After first spotting the animal during a reluctant ice fishing outing with his dad nearly thirty years ago, Seth had devoted himself to research and study. Until passing a few years earlier, Dad had been his partner. Now, with the new tips and theories, Seth was sure he’d solve the mystery.

He turned off the microphone and made his way to the back of the boat. Shaking hands and posing for pictures, he bid every person goodbye. With a sell-out tour, that was no small feat.

“Great job today,” Grant Reem, the tour boat owner, said, making his way through the departing crowd on the dock and hopping on board. “We’re sold out of the official merch at the gift shop.”

“Wow, that’s great news. I’m heading to the printshop. I’ll make another run of… everything,” Seth said.

Taking over his family’s business didn’t distract from his real goal. If anything, running a printshop enhanced his work with Soupy. He’d started merchandising with stickers as a way to fund his hunt. Gasoline for his skiff, binoculars, cameras, various sonar and listening devices—all of which had broken and been replaced over the years—weren’t free. He hadn’t secured any corporate sponsors despite his best efforts. But his search and funding really took off after his story went viral. Donations poured in to help.

Murmured voices cut through the silence.

Grant scanned over Seth’s shoulder. “Is someone still on board?”

Seth shook his head. “I think the noise is coming from your pants.”

“Oops.” Grant fumbled for his phone in his front pocket. “Sorry. I was listening to a podcast.” With a sigh, he turned off the device. “I hope the search for Soupy goes on forever.” Grant chuckled. “Good for my business.”

Seth forced a smile. Grant’s words chilled Seth. Dying without answers was Seth’s nightmare. He prayed—fervently—the other man hadn’t cursed the hunt. He had to discover the truth to cement his family’s legacy in a town chock full of history. Only Soupy—the mosasaurus—would do. Otherwise, the Boyds would be a nameless part of the past, subservient to other, bigger families. Seth owed Dad a legacy.

“Speaking of business, I’d better get back to my store,” Seth said.

“I’ll catch you tonight at Molly’s event?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” With a wave, Seth exited the boat and strolled down the dock. His slip-on loafers slapped every board, the soundtrack to his whirring thoughts.

Grant had purchased the tour boat company almost a year earlier. While he owned one of the oldest businesses, he was a relative newcomer. Along with his girlfriend, Molly Maguire, who had inherited the old sawmill and been the rightful owner of the sunken logs in the lake, Grant was learning the unspoken ways of the town.

Seth scanned the lakeshore as he reached solid ground. Just past the boathouse, a grand Victorian resort rose through the pines. Nestled on a beach boasting a rebuilt, non-functional, probably haunted lighthouse, the Inn at Loon Lake practically founded the town devoted to tourism. The Hales realized the potential for catering to visitors rather than industry. They bought land and built a boardwalk of shops and eateries for their guests, leased to tenants but still owned in the present day by the inn.

Seth pounded the wooden sidewalk of the boardwalk shops most days, dropping off print orders and restocking copies of Loon Lake Life, the local paper he published. Most of the businesses in town had been family-owned for generations, passing from parent to child. While the inn’s management had temporarily threatened the arrangement by valuing profits over people, the return of a Hale to the property resolved the animosity brewing between the businesses.

Reaching the parking lot, Seth hopped into his car and turned over the engine, heading towards his store, a short drive away in a strip mall off the main highway into town. The spot wasn’t picturesque, but it was quiet, and he owned the store outright. Something to be very grateful for.

The influx of tourists, thanks to Soupy’s popularity, was an accomplishment he claimed. He had done his part to increase awareness of Loon Lake before the start of the all-important celebration year. He hoped Elise McKenna, the town’s one-woman tourism board, PR contact, and historical society chief, was pleased. All he had to do now was deliver a monster, and he’d secure his place in town lore.

Easy, peasy.