The Cassiar Connection

Cassiar, British Columbia, still appeared on the maps, but by the 1990s, life had long since drained from the once-thriving mining town. Most of the homes had been hauled away, the streets were little more than fading traces beneath the encroaching wilderness, and nature had slowly begun reclaiming everything people had abandoned. One of the few structures still standing was the old Catholic Church, stripped of warmth and purpose, looming over the empty settlement like a forgotten monument. Nearby, the massive tailings pile and the scarred mountainside remained as permanent reminders of the industry that had once brought life — and fortune — to Cassiar.

Its isolation made it the perfect setting for a film production focused on the abandoned, the forgotten, and the supernatural. The nearest communities of any size were Dease Lake, roughly 120 kilometres to the south, and Watson Lake, Yukon, about 130 kilometres to the north. Between them lay a vast wilderness filled with wildlife, harsh weather, and stories that many locals refused to discuss after dark.

One legend, however, had endured long after the town itself vanished: the story of Irish night watchman Patrick Greenan, the last man buried in Cassiar, two years after the community had effectively disappeared. Since then, hikers, campers, hunters, and trappers had all shared eerily similar stories — sightings of a heavyset older man dressed in faded green coveralls, carrying a flashlight as he wandered the empty roads and abandoned lots in the dead of night. Some claimed he spoke softly before vanishing into the darkness. Others said he simply watched from a distance.

Producer Jackson Wriggs had assembled an unusual team of specialists in the occult, paranormal investigation, filmmaking, and remote-location production. Financing came from a wealthy oil sheik with a fascination for supernatural phenomena and unexplained legends. Acclaimed director Samuel Simmons agreed to helm the semi-documentary project and personally selected much of the crew, including his trusted camera operators and technical staff.

On May 20, 2026, a convoy of film trucks, security vehicles, catering units, fuel tankers, and supply rigs departed Prince George for the gruelling thirteen-hour drive north. Their destination was the ghost town of Cassiar, where they planned to establish a temporary production camp complete with living quarters, communications equipment, generators, and specialized gear designed for both filmmaking and paranormal research.

Fifteen hours later, the convoy rolled into the long, shadowy remains of Cassiar. What awaited them there would soon blur the line between folklore, spiritual belief, and reality.

Crew foreman Alberta Higgins already knew they were behind schedule. The temperature hovered just above freezing at three degrees Celsius, and a thin blanket of late spring snow still covered much of the abandoned townsite. Within a few hours, several helicopters were expected to arrive carrying the executive producers, technical advisors, and the small group of actors attached to the project.

The security personnel travelling with the convoy quickly spread throughout the area, checking for bears, wolverines, and other wildlife that might wander too close as the operation began to unfold. Even in daylight, Cassiar carried an unsettling, almost menacing presence that made every sound seem sharper and more noticeable.

Unlike most film productions, this camp had been designed with security and survival in mind. The largest transport and equipment trucks were positioned in a wide semicircle, leaving only two main exit routes in or out of the site. Behind them, the accommodation trailers formed a second arc closer to the highway. The catering units were placed near the center of the encampment, while supply trucks reinforced the outer perimeter alongside makeup trailers, prop units, generator rigs, communications vans, and several other support trailers.

As the last vehicle eased into position, the camp no longer resembled a movie set. It looked more like humanity’s last stand against hostile forces.

Washroom facilities and shower trailers had been carefully positioned throughout the encampment, within the inner rings of trucks and trailers, while two units were deliberately placed beyond the outer perimeter for overflow use. Around the clock, four security guards that soon would rotate between posts inside and outside the camp boundaries, their watchful eyes constantly scanning the darkening wilderness, waiting for the floodlights to come on.

As crews unloaded equipment, tents were raised both inside the secured compound and at several points just beyond it. Massive arctic heaters were brought into the circus area. Once the sun disappeared behind the jagged Cassiar Mountains, temperatures would plummet, and the real cold of the north would settle in.

At first light the following morning, a smaller advance team travelling in four-wheel-drive vehicles would head toward the old cemetery at the edge of town. Their objective was simple on paper: locate the grave of former night watchman Patrick Greenan and establish a secondary filming site beside the weather-beaten graveyard.

Few among the crew admitted it openly, but many were already uneasy about that assignment. It is always so much more comfortable to work in a big city like Vancouver or Seattle.

Lana Monigue approached Alberta Higgins. Her face looked tense beneath the noise of the circus as it set up.

“Just got word,” Lana said quietly. “Heavy fog rolling into Dease Lake. The helicopters won’t make it in tonight. They’re coming sometime after first light.”

Alberta was about to speak when a message came across the camp radio. “Barry at Highway Post, two trappers are here wanting to talk, over.”

Alberta looked at Lana, “Here comes the locals.” She spoke into her microphone, “I am on my way, Security Chief Nataliya do you copy?”

Her radio crackled slightly, “Nat here, already on my way.”

A few minutes later, Alberta arrived at the edge of the highway, an older battered Ford pickup was running rough, and two men in heavy jackets, large boots and an odour. That could knock over an officer tower that stood nearby.

“Hello, I am Wilson Tucker, and next to me is Jimmy Orwell.” Said the older looking of the two men. We got told you were coming a few days ago. We live just a little up the highway, the only gas station in this part of the world. We are generally closed more than we are open.”

With that, the man identified as Jimmy Orwell, giggled loudly, “Not usually open at all.” He grunted before he spat on the light snow.

Alberta engaged the two men in light conversation. She was told of these two men, Wilson Tucker, the owner of this station since just before the town closed. Jimmy Orwell was a simple man who appeared sometime later, and the two lived in this frozen wilderness.

Wilson Tucker cautiously said towards the end of the conversation, “As I told that guy who was scouting for you, Patrick doesn’t like to be disturbed. He was a simple Irishman that came here in his late teens when things opened up here in the fifties. Me are Jimmy are going back to our place for the night, will stop by tomorrow for our meeting with your big cheesy guy.”\

With that, the conversation was over. Nat, as she liked to be called, looked at Alberta, “So the ghost stories begin.”

Within a few hours, the crew and staff of the site began to settle and prepared to sleep. For the Cassiar Mountains, minus twelve was almost a warm spring day. Some of the security personnel were used to working in cold, dark places. Two of the four guards on duty had served in the Ukrainian war.

Around midnight, the guard stationed closest to the highway noticed a brief flash of light near the massive tailings pile a short distance from camp. At first, he thought it was a reflection — until the light appeared again, moving slowly along the dark slope.

“Possible flashlight near the tailings pile,” he said into his radio, “I’m going to find out if it is ghost or the smelly gas station guys messing around again.”

“Post Two will follow in a moment.”

The night fell silent again except for the low growl of generators and a slight wind sweeping across the area. Five minutes passed as the second guard was almost at the tailing pile, when suddenly rifle fire shattered the darkness.

The shots echoed across Cassiar Valley like thunder rolling through the mountains. In seconds, the entire camp was awake with some chaotic motion. Trailer doors slammed open, floodlights swung wildly across the snow, and startled crew members poured into the freezing night.

Nat burst from the production office, already pulling on her heavy coat as she sprinted toward the sound of the gunfire. One of her security men followed close behind, their boots crunching hard across the icy ground.

Minutes later, they reached the edge of the tailings pile. As a second burst of gunfire burst out

The guard stood completely motionless beneath the pale floodlights, his rifle hanging loosely at his side. A long slash cut across the front of his heavy weather jacket, the blade having sliced through the thick fabric and barely broken the skin beneath. Blood stained the edge of the torn coat, but the wound itself was shallow.

Nat knew the man well. She had worked with him for years and personally selected him for this assignment because he was steady under pressure and almost impossible to rattle. Yet now his face had gone pale beneath the cold northern wind. His eyes remained fixed on the darkness beyond the tailings pile as though he had seen something he could not explain.

Slowly, without taking his eyes off the blackness ahead, he spoke in a trembling voice.

“There was somebody out there.”

NAT looked at his face, “Where is Shilo? He came out here looking for you.”

The rest of the night was chaotic as search crews looked through the cold of the night looking for the big six-foot-four-inch-tall Native American who had served in the U.S. Marines and in the Ukrainian war.

The next morning, the two gas station men appeared and learned of what had occurred. Jimmy looked at Nat, “We heard it, thought you guys got trigger happy at some wolverine or something.”

“We tried to ward you all,” said Wilson. “Better come with me, I might have an idea where to find your man.”

As Nat and one other followed the two men, they told a story of other people that has disappeared. About ten minutes into the walk, they were near what had been the sewage plant of the old town. A short search for Shilo, his throat ripped out, and his bloody knife still gripped in his left hand.

As the first helicopter arrived, Nat had both the dead man and the wounded man loaded onto the helicopter. She used the satellite server to message the Dease Lake RCMP. She sent numerous photos of. The area where the dead man was located. The Producer Wriggs had production move ahead at full speed, he knew once the police appeared, the production would slow to a snail’s pace. The Director was not one for missing an opportunity. One of his actors was in place as the man’s body went up with ancient fables of ghostly animals that a writer had just put together.

The crew worked long and hard in the old cemetery. They did not finish on schedule due to some technical issues, but the weather was improving, so the 1st AD stayed at the graveyard with a small crew and two guards to get things on track for the next morning. Close to midnight, everything looked good.

Paranormal investigator Peter Mansfield had set up equipment all around the grave site of Greenan. He knew that if they could document this haunting properly, it would mean no more late-night, second-rate videos for him — this was his chance to step into the big leagues.

The graveyard lay about half a kilometre from the main camp, but the surveillance equipment provided a clear, steady feed of the entire area.

At 11:30 p.m., Nat checked in on the live feed. She leaned over the monitor, watching the grainy night-vision image flicker across the screen. Suddenly, she heard Peter Mansfield’s voice, sharp with excitement, cutting through the audio feed.

“Something’s here.”

Abruptly, the screen went dead.

Silence, no signal.

“Shit,” Nat snapped. “Get a truck ready. Get me the director or the producer — now, damn it”

Within seconds, the camp shifted into controlled chaos. Engines roared to life as crews scrambled into two 4x4 vehicles, headlights cutting through the darkness like blades.

Suddenly, over the rising noise of engines and shouting voices, they heard it again. Distant rifle fire echoes as screams of anguish closely follow. The first 4x4 arrived with Nat in the front seat. The vehicle stopped suddenly, sliding forward into the edge of a partially overturned camera tent. Six bodies could be seen, some dead, others moaning their last gasp of life. Nat looked to her security detail arriving in the second vehicle, “Circle around, kill anything that moves.”

Nat looked around the area. She walked quickly to the producer and director. “We are driving out of here right away.”

The producer was shocked, “There is a lot of money on this project, it must be animals.”

Nat was furious, she pulled the man out of the vehicle and pushed him next to the closest body, that of a junior camera operator, a large crossbow bolt was through his neck. As she was going to speak, the sounds of nearby gunfire erupted.

“Talk to me,” she said into her radio.

A muffled voice came over the radio, broken and barely controlled.

“Damon is dead, crossbow bolts coming from nowhere and everywhere.

By three in the morning, the camp was already shifting into emergency mode — half packed, half panicked, engines idling as if ready to flee at any second. Nat wasn’t waiting for explanations. She decided on instinct.

She wanted the two men from the gas station; they had to be in on this or know more than they were saying.

Taking a driver with her, she pulled out in a 4x4 and rolled slowly into the darkness, headlights cutting a narrow path through the frozen wilderness As they came over the final rise, the gas station came into view. Flames were coming from the main building.

The light flickered violently, throwing warped shadows in every direction.

Jimmy stumbled out of the side entrance, a pistol shaking in his hand as he fired blindly into the dark beyond the firelight. His face was streaked with soot and fear.

He saw the approaching truck and broke into a desperate run towards it.

“Get out of here!” he shouted. “They’re back, Get Lost!” A crossbow bolt tore through the night and struck him in the throat. Jimmy stumbled as he fell in front of the truck.

The 4x4 turned around and led the battered convoy south towards Dease Lake at insane speeds on the perilous road.

The next day, Nat returned with the producer and a dozen RCMP regulars and auxiliary members. A mysterious sergeant was with them who took Nat aside,

“Do not come back here, you are not the first,” he said, and with that, disappeared into a small helicopter.