Page 3 of Merciless Prince
So why are so many people disappearing forever in the Bellingham Triangle? Is something mysterious happening, or is Mother Nature to blame?
I handed the phone back to Cori. “This is just some conspiracy theory crap, right?” I asked, raising a skeptical brow. “Like the Bermuda Triangle?”
She shook her head. “The Bermuda Triangle thing is totally different. There aren’t actually more disappearances there than any other area, and there are also reasonable explanations for the people whohavedisappeared, so it’s just a stupid old story to scare kids.” She paused and leaned closer. “The Bellingham thing isreal.All those people have actually disappeared and never been found. That’s why I can’t believe you haven’t heard of it!”
My brows dipped in a frown. “But the article explained it. Lots of hikers go up to the state park, and some of them get lost. Two people a year sounds like a lot, but it’s not when you think about how many thousands of people travel through the area every year. Also, there’s the college population to account for,” I said. “The author twisted the stats to make it seem like it’s two people out of the Bellingham township population disappearing every year, but it isn’t.It’s two people out of tens of thousands of students, hikers, and tourists, which is way closer to the state average than he made it sound.”
Cori pulled a face as she considered my words. “Damn. You’re right,” she finally said, shoulders drooping. She cocked her head slightly to one side. “Guess you aren’t just a pretty face after all,” she added.
“Yeah, sometimes I manage to rub a few brain cells together,” I replied, poking her in the ribs.
She grinned and played around on her phone for another couple of minutes. Then she turned to me and spoke up again with a triumphant tone in her voice. “Okay, I just looked up how many hikers and tourists visit the area every year, and the disappearance rate is still three times higher than average,” she said. “Also, what about the seven Bellingham students who went missing? That’s weird, right?”
I nodded slowly. “Yeah, that’s kinda creepy. When did they go missing?”
“Two in the seventies. Three in the eighties. One in the nineties. One in the noughties.”
My lips twisted. “There must be a reasonable explanation,” I said, scratching at my chin. “There were more serial killers in the seventies and eighties than there are right now, right? So maybe that’s what happened with the earlier cases.”
Cori chewed on her bottom lip as she tucked a stray strand of blonde hair behind her left ear. “I don’t know. Maybe,” she said. “The whole thing is still weird, though. Most colleges wouldn’t survive having a reputation for disappearing students. Just one or two is usually enough to put people off.”
I briefly turned to the window again, glancing at the deeply-wooded hills of the distant Hudson Highlands as the train zipped up the tracks overlooking the riverbank. The terrain out here was beautiful, but it could also be treacherous.
I knew that better than anyone.
“It’s pretty weird,” I said, looking at Cori again. “I guess it’s not surprising that the university doesn’t mention it anywhere in their catalogs.”
“No shit.” Cori let out a dry laugh. “Honestly, though, I bet people would still kill each other to get in even if twenty students disappeared every year. I know I totally would.”
I laughed too. She was right on the money.
Bellingham University was on par with the Ivies in reputation and endowment. A degree or diploma from the place was like a golden ticket to the good life, with graduates holding the highest positions in every industry including law, politics, business, medicine, and entertainment. Some were famous research scientists, and others were published authors or lauded artists.
The competition to gain a spot in any of the programs was fierce, and it didn’t end after high school. The university’s reputation was so good that people would often attend another college for a couple of years while still applying to Bellingham every year. Then they’d switch to a course at Bellingham when they finally received an offer, even though it meant starting from scratch because the university disallowed the transfer of credits from other institutions. As a result, the average starting age for a freshman was twenty-one—like Cori and me—rather than eighteen like most other colleges. The application list was probably miles long, too.
Now that I thought about it, it wouldn’t surprise me if the Bellingham students who went missing over the years were victims of foul play from fellow students who were jealous of their grades or favoritism from professors.
No mystery there. Just shitty, overly-ambitious people who’d do anything to get a leg-up in a cutthroat environment.
Cori smothered a yawn with one hand and leaned back in her seat, eyelids drifting shut. I returned my gaze to the passing landscape, quietly marveling at its beauty.
Upstate New York was filled with nature’s best—rolling hills rising above the mighty Hudson River, valleys filled with emerald-green moss and winding creeks, large shimmering lakes, and large colorful forests. The air was cleaner up here, too; well above the haze and pungent odors that often hung over New York City.
I loved the city with all of its noise, bright lights, and excitement—it was where I grew up, after all—but I thought the countryside was more special in its own quiet, resplendent way. I couldn’t imagine a time when I’d grow tired of seeing it, even if it held bad memories alongside the good.
I let out a contented sigh and tilted my head back, still staring out the window. The train slowed for a few seconds as the tracks curved slightly to the right. Then it picked up speed again, whizzing past a quaint riverside hamlet as it headed deeper into the Hudson Valley.
Two familiar sights soon appeared in the distance.
The first was the historic Clyde Park estate, which lay on a massive parcel of land near the river. It was easily discernible on the landscape due to the enormous cream-colored Beaux Arts mansion which stood in the center of the property. About a mile from that lay the second familiar sight—a hulking stone bridge that led over to Beaumont Island, which lay in the middle of the Hudson.
A soaring gray castle stood on the island, built in the late 1800s by a wealthy industrialist who loved Bavarian architecture. When he died, his family turned the castle into a boarding school, and when that closed down, the wealthy Knight family bought the place and turned it into a tourist destination with hotel accommodation, restaurants, a casino, and medieval reenactments and fairs.
I was a little bit of an architecture buff, so the sight of the wondrous old building with its crenellated walls and conical turrets should have made my stomach flutter with enthusiasm. Instead, it made my chest tighten with unease.
Not so long ago, I was inside that castle. More specifically, I wasbelowit, in a dark grotto that felt like one of the pits of Hell.
I reached over and nudged Cori. “Hey, remember that place?” I whispered, pointing to the distant castle.
