Monster Control Inc. 16
In which a warrior finds peace
Redfeather performed a brief ceremony in the backyard, offering tobacco smoke and prayers in Dakota. Then, with surprising efficiency, he began excavating beneath the oak tree, precisely where the thermal imaging had indicated. I assisted him, passing him the tools as he needed them while documenting the process.
It took less than an hour to uncover the remains—a nearly complete skeleton, curled in a fetal position, with remnants of what had once been grave goods: a stone pipe, arrowheads, and beaded ornaments. The skull was intact, its empty eye sockets seeming to stare accusingly up at the luxury home looming above it.
"He's been here at least two hundred years," Redfeather said quietly, examining the artifacts. "A warrior, based on the burial items."
"How can you tell?" I asked.
"The pipe is ceremonial, only given to men of importance. The particular design of the arrowheads is from a period when our people were at war with the Ojibwe." He gently brushed dirt from the skull. "He died violently. See the fracture here?" He pointed to a jagged crack in the cranium.
The Prestons watched from a distance, Diane holding a scented handkerchief to her nose, Greg checking his watch every few minutes.
As Redfeather worked, I felt the atmosphere changing. The oppressive feeling that had permeated the house was lifting. The temperature was normalizing.
"He's calmer now," Redfeather observed. "He knows he's being tended to properly."
Once all the remains had been carefully collected and wrapped in a red cloth, Redfeather performed another ceremony. This one was longer, more elaborate, with songs in Dakota and the burning of sage and sweetgrass.
"I'll take him to our tribal cemetery," he told me when he'd finished and the body was safely ensconced in the covered bed of the pickup. "Give him a proper burial with his people."
I nodded. "Thank you for showing me how this is done properly. It’s an honor."
"Hey, you were dead-on about the site," he acknowledged. "Nice work, Scrubb."
Greg approached as Redfeather packed the remains into his truck. "So that's it? Problem solved?"
"The haunting should cease," Redfeather confirmed. "The spirit will follow his remains."
"Good. Excellent." Greg pulled out his checkbook. "What do we owe you for your services?"
Redfeather stared at him for a long moment. "We don't charge anyone for paying respect to our ancestors, Mr. Preston."
Greg shifted uncomfortably. "Right, of course. But surely there's some sort of... donation or something that I could make?"
"If you feel led to offer your support, the Dakota Language Preservation Society can always use assistance." Redfeather handed him a card. "But you would do well to remember whose land you're living on, and showing the appropriate respect for it."
After we conducted a final scan of the house confirming the paranormal activity had ceased, Greg wrote a check to MCI for the investigation services. As we prepared to leave, I couldn't help but add one last thing.
"You might want to consider informing your neighbors about this," I said. "If there was one grave, there might be others in the area. Your neighbors could be sitting on similar situations."
"That's not our concern," Greg said dismissively. "As far as I’m concerned, the issue is resolved. What the Johnsons or Williamses do about their potential ghost problems is their business."
"But that attitude is exactly why these problems continue to persist," I replied, unable to restrain myself. "This entire development was built on stolen land, with zero regard for the people who lived here for thousands of years before them. I think the least you could do is show some basic human decency!"
"And I think your job here is done, Mr. Scrubb," Greg said coldly. "I'll be sure to let your supervisor know if we require any further assistance from MCI."
Redfeather placed a hand on my shoulder. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Preston. We should be going now."
In the truck, Redfeather was silent for several minutes as we drove away from Maple Ridge Court.
"You need to learn when to speak and when to listen," he said finally.
"I know. I just—"
"You're not wrong about the historical injustices," he interrupted. "But antagonizing wealthy white people and attempting to make them feel a sense of responsibility for things that happened more than a century ago rarely inspires them to be sympathetic."
"So we just respect their ignorance? Their indifference and selfishness?"
"No. Of course not. What we do is we plant seeds for future respect. We create opportunities for understanding. But we must always recognize that centuries of entitlement don't vanish in a single conversation." He glanced at me. "You have good instincts and a good heart, Horace Scrubb. But you need to learn patience. And self-control."
I thought about that. He was probably right. "God, Carlson's going to be pissed when Preston complains."
"Probably," Redfeather agreed. "But you did good work today, despite your lack of diplomacy. Our warrior is going home to his rest. That's all that really matters."
We drove in companionable silence for a while before I asked, "How long have you worked with MCI?"
"Fifteen years, give or take. I'm not an employee—I'm a consultant. They call me when they need native expertise."
"And Carlson? How long have you known him?"
Redfeather smiled slightly. "Lars has been here almost as long as I have. He's a good man, under all that gruffness. He understands far more than he lets on."
"Could've fooled me," I muttered.
Do you want to be right, or do you want to win?
Scrubb was so close… and so far.
Redfeather is a Good Dude.