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STEAMBOAT DISPATCH

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Harvard Explorers Trapped in Johqu Bogart’s Chateaugay Lake Masque Illusion

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As the Verdant Pilgrims stumbled through the shifting mist, their nerves jangling like out-of-tune piano strings, they caught the faint glow of lantern light bobbing ahead. The eerie music of Johqu’s bassoon faded momentarily, replaced by the sounds of muffled voices—gruff, familiar voices with the unmistakable cadence of the Chateaugay locals.

“Who’s there?!” bellowed one of the voices, sharp as a whip and unmistakably annoyed. The fog parted just enough to reveal two figures standing near a creaking wooden dock. The taller one was broad-shouldered and rugged, with a weathered face and a wool cap pulled low over his brow. The shorter one, wiry and sharp-eyed, held the lantern aloft, squinting into the gloom.

“Now just what in tarnation are you fancy fellas doing out here at this hour?” demanded the taller one, his voice thick with the North Country drawl, as heavy and rooted as the trees around them.

The Pilgrims hesitated, their polished Cambridge accents sticking awkwardly in their throats as they tried to formulate a response. Alfred, who always had a knack for fumbling at the worst possible moment, stammered, “We, uh… we were invited… to a… a ball… an astral masquerade—”

“An astral what now?” interrupted the shorter man, his tone equal parts confusion and suspicion. He shifted the lantern to get a better look at the Pilgrims, their ill-fitted masks and out-of-place suits. “You mean to tell me you crossed this here lake in the dead o’ night for some kind o’ spook party? Boy, you must’ve lost yer marbles!”

“Wait, wait, wait,” said the taller one, crossing his arms. “Did you say Johqu Bogart? That feller’s up to his old tricks again, ain’t he? You don’t know no better, but lemme tell you somethin’—Johqu ain’t throwin’ no real party. He’s out here just messin’ with yer heads, laughin’ himself silly in some thicket or other.”

“But the music!” Alfred protested, pointing toward the eerie sounds still floating through the mist. “It’s real! We heard it! And we saw—well, we thought we saw—steamboat pirates… and… and the Wendigo!”

The shorter man snorted, shaking his head. “Ah, the Wendigo, huh? Well, if that don’t beat all. Next you’ll be tellin’ me you saw ole Seth Thomas hisself paddlin’ a canoe made o’ moonbeams!” He turned to his companion. “Arnie, can you believe this lot? College boys from down south, comin’ all the way up here to get themselves spooked by some ghost stories. Ain’t that somethin’?”

But the taller man—Arnie, apparently—didn’t laugh. Instead, he furrowed his brow and glanced toward the lake, his expression darkening. “Hold on now, Gus. Maybe they ain’t lyin’. I been fishin’ this lake near fifty years, and there’s some things out here I still can’t explain. Sounds you hear late at night, shapes movin’ in the fog. Might be Johqu’s just a fool with a bassoon, but might be he’s tapped into somethin’ real.”

Gus looked skeptical, but before he could argue, the eerie music swelled again, louder this time, and the mist seemed to writhe like a living thing. The Pilgrims and the locals froze, their breath hitching as a ghostly figure emerged from the fog—a steamboat captain, his uniform tattered, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.

“Aw, hell no,” Gus muttered, stepping back. “Arnie, tell me you’re seein’ that.”

“I’m seein’ it,” Arnie replied grimly, gripping the brim of his cap. “And I’m thinkin’ maybe these boys ain’t so crazy after all.”

The ghostly captain raised one translucent hand, pointing directly at the Pilgrims. His voice, deep and resonant, echoed through the mist: “Turn back, strangers. This is no place for the living. Bogart’s realm will consume you all.”

Alfred let out a strangled yelp, and Abner’s pipe clattered to the ground as the group collectively stumbled backward. Gus, despite his earlier bravado, crossed himself and muttered, “Sweet Mary and Joseph, I knew I shoulda stayed home tonight.”

Thomas, ever the leader, took a step forward, his voice firm despite the tremor in his hands. “Who are you? What is this place? What does Johqu Bogart want?”

The captain didn’t answer. Instead, he dissolved into the mist, leaving only the sound of his footsteps retreating toward the water. The bassoon music grew louder, more discordant, as if mocking their confusion.

“Well,” Arnie said after a long silence, “looks like you fellas got yourselves into somethin’ deep. I dunno what kinda game Johqu’s playin’, but if you’re serious about findin’ answers, you’re gonna need more than them fancy masks o’ yours.”

“And what exactly do you suggest?” Thomas asked, trying—and failing—to mask his frustration.

Arnie scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Gus and me, we know these woods better’n most. We’ll take you as far as the old Pine Lodge—place Johqu used to hole up when he wasn’t out scarin’ the bejesus outta tourists. If there’s anythin’ to be found, it’ll be there.”

“And if there ain’t?” Abner asked, eyeing the shifting mist warily.

Arnie shrugged. “Then I guess we all pray the Wendigo don’t come callin’. Now let’s get movin’—time’s wastin’, and I don’t wanna be out here when that music stops.”

And with that, the unlikely group—Harvard scholars and rugged locals—set off into the mist, their lanterns casting long, wavering shadows as they ventured deeper into Johqu Bogart’s strange and twisted world.