Repurposed 11.1

Interval 11.1
July 7, 2003
1400, Witch Hole Pond, Maine
Exact Location Unknown



It was warm, wet, and breezy on the coast of Maine, this time of year. Or so it was supposed to be. A foursome of government agents, decked out in their light-forest camouflage best and with all the amazing gadgets money could buy (and that Armacham could supply) attached to their belts and headsets, tromped through what was meant to be a hiking trail on a normally-pleasant island off the coast. They'd studied maps of the trails, there were bike paths and hiking indicators, dog-walks and the like. Yet for all the pamphlets espousing of such things they were having a very, very difficult time locating those trails.

Because they were under two feet of snow.

Even those natives who had called up for some help on this issue had no good explanation; in their collected memories it had snowed perhaps three times in a century, in the middle of Summer. It was true that most of Bar Harbor would be snowed in or at least extremely cold the rest of the year. All those quaint little bed and breakfast places that the team had passed would be shut down at those times. They were busy now, but then, they weren't where the snow was.

All the trees were brilliantly green in this area of the Harbor. It smelled wonderful over on the beach. The mix of ocean air, healthy forest, and cookery smoke even wafted several miles inland.

All those green trees where this team was standing though, they were covered in snow. Heavy with it, though there was none actually falling at the time they got there. It smelled cold here. The team's noses were red, cheeks vibrant. Breath visible in plumes.

"It's been like this for how long, exactly?" Their senior member, Sergeant Dolan said, scratching the back of his shaved head and wishing they'd brought thicker long-johns for this trip.

"Since last week," their informant replied. She would have been shivering, but she had the forethought to bring her parka. It would be useless on a five-minute-walk away. "It started up right when we were going to put down a party mat, you know, the kid's birthday."

"Wait, which kid, whose?" Private Griggs asked, "and where'd they go?"

"Oh, she's out there," the woman waved her hand. She pointed her gloved finger into the white distance, "Lydia was never a problem until last week."

Griggs looked at the others, shrugged, and decided it would be for the best if they started looking for the child. They hadn't been called in to deal with a lost kid, everyone knew where she was. They learned from the woman that her daughter was getting on just fine out there, regular meals and all brought over to her. It was just … Snowing. Around her. The four trudged through the knee-high drifts and were followed by the woman, Norma Ford, who pointed out small landmarks barely visible below their trail. The trail got flatter and flatter, the terrain nervously noted by Griggs to be a bit… wobbly.

And there she was, Lydia Ford, seated on what looked like an inflatable plastic raft that had mostly deflated below her, wearing a bright yellow and red spotted dress. On further investigation, as the child watched them with a pouty look on her face, they realized they were standing in the middle of Witch Hole Pond itself.

Griggs leaned over to Dolan and said, "if … I mean, if she –"

"If she decides to make it melt, we're going for a swim," Dolan replied, nodding. He smirked and glanced at the Private, "you can swim, right?" Adding a chuckle, he tapped out a beat on his headset: listening to music on company time. He'd handled far worse than this during his stay in this bizarre unit. She wasn't blowing shit up, flying or flinging things with her mind, or otherwise causing immediately visible property damage.

Behind them, Sheckley, their medic and the youngest on the team, chatted to Mrs. Ford. He was simply amazed at all this: he'd been on PHEAR for all of a month and while the other two trips to 'hunt ghosts' had led exactly nowhere, this one was going to be a prize. Lydia, it appeared, at the ripe age of two (as of last week), had developed a stunning power to change the temperature around her.

Perhaps it was because this was Maine, Sheckley thought and wisely kept to himself, the locals knew better than to just ignore all the warning signs of paranormal activity. All those horror stories and movies, they almost always occurred out here in the middle of a beautiful, lonely place like Maine. He'd always been a fan of such stories, but not because they scared him. More because they intrigued and sparked curiosity in him. He felt it was absolutely an honor to be meeting such a unique child today.

His companions had been on the team a little longer. Griggs for instance, he'd been there since last December. Jay Dolan and his wife Tish were both originally Marines, tapped for the new division on its inception early the year before. There were perhaps a dozen more people sent off in teams like this across the country and around the world.

Paranormal Human Event Attack Resistance, "PHEAR" – or as Griggs had learned it, "FEAR – fuck everything and run" by some of its ex members. It didn't look like his current team were the type to mock it like that. They were serious about this… Well, as serious as people could be in a super-secret covered-up conspiracy-laden department like theirs. They were called 'ghost chasers', 'x-filers', 'nutball weirdoes' at worst. However, when there had been real paranormal events, they'd managed to contain, confine or otherwise monitor them. According to Dolan, their record was something like one 'real' encounter per twelve wild goose chases. This was obviously their lucky day.

It was Tish that approached the child first, carefully and with a smile on her beautiful Asian face.

"It's pretty cold over here," Tish said, kneeling and ignoring for the moment the fact that her ass would be coming up from the nearby drift covered in snow – or worse, wet, which would make that lout of a husband of hers burst out laughing. "But you don't seem to be chilly, Lydia, do you like the cold?"

Though mistrustful at first, the girl tucked her lip back where it was supposed to be, and nodded.

"I thought so! I like popsicles," Tish continued. "But I don't have any right now." She tilted her head, rich black hair spreading over her shoulder. "Do you think you could make one for me?"

Thus engaged, Lydia scooped up a double-handful of snow, pushed her bare hands together, and closed her eyes for a moment.

If it was possible, the area directly around her got even colder. Tish laughed even though her teeth were clattering, "thank you, Lydia!" She took the presented lump of ice, glad that she had her shooting gloves on. "I think your mom wants you to come in now, is that okay?"

With that, Lydia huffed mightily, crossed her arms over her chest, and looked away pouting again.

"Well, I guess you could stay out here," Tish said, hunkering down for the long haul. "Do you like to ice fish? My dad likes to do that."

Their conversation went on, Tish attempting to coax the girl out from the raft and back into her mother's arms, and subtly assessing the how's and when's of her newfound abilities. Beyond them though, it looked like the trees were now growing more green: the edges of the lake were thawing.

"Oh this is not going to be good," Dolan grunted. "How about you get us a boat," he said to Griggs, who hustled.

Sheckley looked on in bright-eyed amazement, still. "Ma'am, I think we have a place were Lydia would feel right at home."

"The polar bear enclosure at a zoo?" Dolan piped in, and got a snowball flung at him from his wife's direction. "What, you thought it too!"

"Imma podarbare!" Lydia screeched, adding a rawr! and rolling to all fours. She gleefully chased the adults back to the shore, somehow maintaining the icy surface of the water below them until it turned to sand and pebbles. The snow drifts had melted along the tree line and shore. Finally, she was gathered up by her mother, who obviously knew better than to start scolding the girl.

"Do you want to go to this place," she said, looking at Sheckley for edification.

"Aperture-Armacham's Enrichment Center, the Origin project. They've had a lot of success with … well, with kids like this," he said. "I'm sure she'd fit right in."

"Well, as long as they have tranquilizer dart-guns at the ready," Lydia's mother muttered. It seemed that Lydia was exhausted now – though she'd maintained her vigil on the lake for a week no one could grab her while she slept. She'd apparently formed a dome of ice over herself.

By the time they reached the Ford family home, there was only the barest indication that anything had ever happened on the lake: mostly in the form of dozens of dead fish that had been flash-frozen just under the surface. The Fords thought having a proper sitter or school for their darling little prodigy would be perfect.