by Blake Pierce
With stars darting across his vision, he allowed himself to be guided and dragged halfway down the stairs again, away from the ladder in the well, away from any escape, back, and toward the basement.
“Fool,” the old man was whispering in his ear. “No screaming, no shouting, no being rude to your siblings. Just some simple rules. And yet you go and do something as fucking stupid as that.”
Diedrich was thrown to the ground, stumbling in the dirt. He spun around, eyes wide, pleadings burbling to his lips, but he couldn’t form a coherent sentence. The pain in his head, the cold, the fear were too much.
Diedrich had flashes and glimpses of the raging gray-haired man above him, shouting, spittle flying. He saw the others, all eight of them, step back, hunched, whimpering.
“We’re a family!” screamed the gray-haired man. “A family! There are rules. Without discipline there is no compliance. Without authority, there’s rebellion. With rebellion there is no home. Without a home, we have a house—and a house is a burden which leads to abandonment! Don’t you understand what I’m giving you!” He kicked Diedrich once, twice.
Diedrich just curled up, lying on the ground in front of his cage. After a bit, the old man’s temper seemed to recede.
“No attempts at escape,” he said. “We don’t abandon the family. The number one rule. And what do we do when someone breaks the rules? Number three?”
There were now sobs in the room, some whimpering. Number three, in a trembling, terrified voice, said, “Please, he didn’t know—”
“What do we do when the rules are broken, number three?” the gray-haired man said, louder, cutting him off.
More whimpering, and then, “Punishment.”
“That’s right, punishment,” said the gray-haired man.
Diedrich blinked a few more times, some of the dark spots clearing from his vision, the pain receding in his head. As his gaze settled once more in the poorly lit illuminated room, he saw the psycho reach toward his waist.
There was a soft scraping sound. Diedrich stared, stunned, wide-eyed, as a thick bowie knife was pulled from a sheath at the man’s hip. Diedrich hadn’t seen it at first, as the hem of the shirt had covered the handle.
Now, though, the wickedly sharp blade appeared.
“Disobedience merits punishment,” said the man, wiggling the knife toward Diedrich. He took a step forward.
Diedrich, in that moment, knew he was about to die. The day had started so normally. He’d searched the forest, wanting to help. And now this. It wasn’t right.
The old, gray-haired man held the knife forward, stepped closer to Diedrich, but then he grabbed the young Asian girl. He glared at Diedrich and didn’t look away once. The girl was sobbing now, limp in his hands, like a lamb before slaughter.
“Disobedience,” said the gray-haired man, “merits punishment.”
And then he slit the girl’s neck and dumped her to the ground, allowing blood to splatter at Diedrich’s feet and stain the dust.
Diedrich stared in horror, watching the girl’s hands twitch. Once, twice, than fail. The blood spread out, staining Diedrich’s feet, washing toward the cage that he’d been put in.
“Go to your rooms!” the man screamed.
The others quickly raced back into their chicken wire cages. The gray-haired man dragged Diedrich into his and slammed the door, then latched it. He moved over to the breaker on the wall and flipped it. There was a quiet buzzing hum as electricity recharged the doors.
“I’m putting you on timeout,” he said. “I want you to think about what you did.”
Then the old man took the stairs again with creaking steps, closed the door at the top, locked it by the sound of things. Then was gone.
Diedrich stared at the corpse in front of his cage. He stared at number eight. Not her real name. Once a person—a human. Now a husk. Her lifeless eyes stared back, and the blood continued to spread, pooling over the dust, creeping closer to the cage door. The sounds of the others crying, whimpering, filled the basement.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
When he failed, people died. A resolute, stony fact of life. The Sergeant knew this. He moved through the woods, the flashlight beam tracing the detritus, skipping from trunk to trunk, flashing through the woods. Deep. He’d gone deep. But the Sergeant had a head for direction. He always kept a keychain compass with him besides. GPS was for the younger generation—the Sergeant would do it the old way. He shivered a bit, but suppressed the feeling; he was very good at suppressing feelings. The Sergeant felt a weight, a whisper in the trees, and he knew it was his fault.
Pine cones crunched beneath his booted feet, and twigs scattered. Browning needles from the trees softened his footfalls every few steps. And he moved, following the last grid pattern they’d left off with in the search party.
He kept the flashlight swinging one way then the other. His gloved hand gripped the yellow plastic handle.
Whispers in the trees. Whispers in the woods. Then again, the same whispers could be found in his bedroom. Could be found in his car. Could be found anywhere he went.
“Lord, preserve me,” he murmured. The Sergeant was not a man given to swearing. He didn’t think highly of those who couldn’t contain their language. But sometimes life deserved a resounding fuck you.
Whispers. Whispers, reminding him. He hadn’t solved Elise’s murder. He hadn’t prevented it.
It was getting even colder. He shivered, still moving through the woods.
By now, it felt like he had traveled a kilometer, maybe two, leaving the highway far behind. Adele had wanted to come with him, search the deeper woods at his side.
But that would have been more shame. A poignant reminder. The whispers were louder when Adele was around. She was a better investigator. He had known it. He hadn’t solved her mother’s death. She would never forgive him for that, he was sure of it. She probably hated him for it. He hated himself. He frowned, hand bunching. No, only weirdos hated themselves. The Sergeant wasn’t a weirdo.
Whatever the case, he needed to solve this one. Elise’s murderer had gotten away. But this kidnapper, this person preying on young folk, would have to be caught. And the Sergeant was determined to see it through.
Resolute, shoulders set, he marched through the woods, like a hound with a scent. Dogged, unrelenting, unyielding. The cold didn’t bother him. Sleeplessness didn’t bother him. Elements didn’t bother him. Exertion didn’t bother him. Passing time didn’t bother him. One step, two-step, look here, look there. The Sergeant had never failed when it came to exertion.
He moved like a pit bull through the trees. Several kilometers passed. And then he pulled up beneath a grove. More pine needles, more leaves. Nothing. The same as the years spent looking for Elise’s killer. Nothing.
Never anything. What was the point?
But the Sergeant just as quickly severed that line of thought. It didn’t matter what he felt. Emotions were weakness. What mattered was what he did.
He lowered his head and tracked for another kilometer, checking behind every tree, every inch of dirt, two hours, three, four. By now, night had long since passed, and darkness had encroached over the forest. Perhaps it was ten PM. He didn’t know, didn’t care. He didn’t like looking at a watch when he was on the hunt.
As he moved around the copse, over a small hillock, he reached a portion of the forest that seemed thinner. The trees here were still large, but a few were planted in a way that suggested uniformity, intentionality.
He wrinkled his nose. These trees were young, small, saplings. His eyes darted forward: a dirt trail. He took a few steps from the trail and glanced up. Then stiffened, and flashed his light over what he’d seen.
An orange glow was emanating from a small single-story cabin between the trees.
“Hello there,” he murmured softly to himself.
The Sergeant moved up the trail, cautious, careful. He didn’t have his service weapon with him. He’d been here on a volunteer basis and hadn’t wanted
to alarm the other searchers.
Now, though, he was starting to wish he’d brought it.
As he moved closer toward the small, single-story cabin, a quiet chill crept over his shoulders. “And who might you be?” he murmured, still speaking to himself.
In front of the cabin, there were all manner of small plants and trees. It was like a nursery in the forest. Someone clearly spent a lot of time gardening here.
Past the small trees, through the window, where there were no curtains, he saw a woman about his age. She was moving, her motions like dancing. Each of her steps seemingly an intentional foray toward vitality.
She reached into a cupboard and withdrew a colander, then moved to a stove. She seemed to be listening to something, though, which the Sergeant couldn’t hear. Her head tilted back, and she loosed laughter. He could just faintly make out the final vestiges of the noise. A crystalline, lively noise.
The Sergeant found himself staring through the window at the woman, a small smile inserting itself beneath his curly mustache. He stood there for a few moments, just watching as she danced around her small cabin, moving things or setting things down.
Then he realized what he was doing and what it must look like, ogling a woman through a window in a private home; he felt a flash of embarrassment. He could feel his cheeks heating, and he muttered to himself, “Don’t be a weirdo.”
He stalked up past the garden. As he glanced at the plants, he supposed the woman likely had planted the array. She had a clear talent for it. Small saplings were growing next to patches of flowers, and curling, ornamental plants twisted up a path toward the front of the cabin.
He reached the front door and gently tapped against the frame. He heard faint voices from inside, more laughter. She was with someone. Stunningly, this filled him with a sudden sense of embarrassment and despair.
Why should that bother him? A stranger in the middle of the forest was no better or worse than two strangers. Well, perhaps in the former, it would be more difficult for him to be overpowered without his weapon. Still, he felt a flash of disappointment.
He knocked a bit louder.
The voices stopped. Then he heard dainty, tapping footsteps. The feet of a dancer.
The door swung open.
Warmth and orange light extended into the dark cold night to greet him. A similarly warm smile radiated from the woman’s face. She was even more beautiful up close. Not a single hair out of place. Auburn streaked with the grays of wisdom. She was smiling at him, and there wasn’t a note of fear. “Hello,” she said, gently. “Can I help you?”
The Sergeant was taken aback. For someone alone in the woods, to be approached by a stranger, it would normally alarm or terrify most people. The woman, though, didn’t seem scared at all.
“Hello,” said the Sergeant. He spoke quick, gruff, not pausing for a response. “My name is Joseph Sharp. I’m part of a search force looking through the forest. There have been some disappearances recently, and we’re trying to find missing people. Do you have a moment to talk?”
The woman’s smile didn’t change one iota. She nodded and stepped back, sweeping with a gallant hand into the cabin.
“Please,” she said, “you’re welcome, Joseph Sharp. My name is Gretel Klose. Would you like some tea? I brew it myself.”
The Sergeant shook his head politely and dusted his feet off. He stepped foot into the small, single-story cabin.
It was as small as it had looked from the outside. There was only one room separate from the main area. A bedroom, he guessed. Or perhaps the bathroom.
“Thank you, Ms. Klose,” he said, clearing his throat.
“Mrs.!” called out a voice from the kitchen section with a laugh.
The Sergeant turned to behold a smiling man waiting at a large, handcrafted oak table. There were two plates on the table, and the smell of pasta and tomato sauce coming from a small stove tucked in the far corner of the cabin.
The glass window above the stove had fogged from heat, but the smell sent the Sergeant’s stomach rumbling.
“Are you hungry, dear Joseph?” the woman asked.
The table was very large. Much larger than suited the cabin, the Sergeant thought to himself. There were also a few seats around it, all of them empty. He counted six chairs in total; only two of them had plates in front of them.
“I’m sorry,” he said, nodding politely toward the man who was also sitting. “How do you do?”
The man had gray hair, and eyes wrinkled with laugh lines. “Hello,” the man said.
“Hello, I was just telling your, er friend?”
“Wife,” the man corrected, quickly, with a disarming smile. He gestured at the Sergeant. “Come, sit.”
Again, he was struck at the lack of fear. They were just inviting him into their home. It felt like a dream sequence. Why were they so trusting?
This, strangely, aroused a sudden spurt of distrust in the Sergeant. At the same time, it came with a flash of guilt. Warmth and hospitality created distrust. Heavens, if his mother could see him now.
Eventually, the Sergeant explained himself again, explained he was part of a search party and that he was a police officer. The Kloses invited him to sit. Mr. Klose finished heating up the food, and then his wife moved and served plates for all three of them.
“I grow the tomatoes myself. I hope you like it,” she said.
The Sergeant nodded politely. He wasn’t sure why he sat, nor why he didn’t push the food away. Something about all of it seemed so… inviting. He took a bite of the food, and could feel his stomach grumbling as he did. He hadn’t realized just how hungry he was. Normally, the Sergeant wasn’t one for rabbit food. Namely, anything without meat. But the pasta and the tomato sauce was quite good. He said as much, thanking them.
He glanced around the small cabin, trying not to make a big deal of it. There were still no curtains on the windows. Not even from the inside. He spotted a bed next to a fireplace and decided that the single room he’d spotted earlier likely led to the bathroom.
There were no photos on the walls, nor TVs that he could see. He was starting to like these folks even more.
“As I was telling you,” he said, after another bite of the spaghetti, “we’re out here searching. You haven’t seen anything suspicious, have you?”
Mrs. Klose laughed a clear, tinkling sound. “Suspicious? No. We’ve been here for a few years now. Haven’t seen anything like that.”
Her husband nodded in confirmation.
“A few years?” said the Sergeant. “Do you own the land?”
Mr. Klose said, “Yes. Certainly. Everything is legal. We have the permit, and I have copies of the papers here. I keep some of them up at the bank. If you’d like I could show you.”
The Sergeant quickly shook his head. “No, that’s not why I’m here.”
“Well, to be honest with you,” said Mrs. Klose, reaching out a hand and touching him gently on the back of his hand. The Sergeant felt a shudder, and just as quickly suppressed it. The woman had kind eyes, and she fixed them on him. “I’m very sorry to hear why you’re out here. We’re no strangers to tragedy. We used to live in Berlin. Big city living. But our son, well, he was killed at the time.”
The woman’s voice cracked, and she looked away, her hand still pressed against the Sergeant’s.
The warmth from her fingertips warmed his own.
If Mr. Klose seemed jealous or upset by the proximity, he didn’t show it. Instead, in a gentle voice, he said, “It’s all right, dear. It’s all right.” He rubbed her shoulder and allowed her to continue.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice cracking, tears slipping down her delicate cheek. “You don’t want to hear anything about our story. Look, if we see anything, we’re happy to tell you. Any questions, we’ll answer. Is there something you want to know?”
The Sergeant hesitated. Caught off guard again. The Kloses just seemed like nice folks. “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry about your loss. Your son was kil
led, you say?”
The woman nodded, grief emanating from the gesture.
“I’m no stranger to loss either,” said the Sergeant.
“Oh, you poor lamb,” Mrs. Klose exclaimed, now stroking his hand with hers. “So sorry to hear that.”
“We couldn’t handle society after our loss,” said Mr. Klose. “We decided to live off-grid. I bought this small parcel. We pulled a modular cabin up here and set it on the mountainside. We grow our own food, we have a septic tank and a cistern to collect rain and some groundwater. We even have a well, though it’s not finished yet.”
The Sergeant nodded as he listened.
He glanced around the small cabin again, and through the windows. He caught glimpses of the trees beyond.
To be living in the forest like this, he felt a small flash of envy. But also respect. There were very few who were bold enough to cut their roots. To replant.
“I saw the garden,” he said. “It’s very nice.”
Mrs. Klose patted him on the hand. “Thank you. We spend a lot of time with it. Sometimes we have help. Others that live around these parts.”
“Children sometimes,” said the gray-haired man, without blinking. “Friends. Family. They come visit on occasion. They help with the gardening once a month or so. They like the fresh air. But for the most part they stay in the city.”
The woman smiled sadly. “One day… one day, we hope they’ll come out here and move here permanently. But that takes time. It’s hard to learn a new lifestyle.”
Both of them nodded knowingly at each other. And the Sergeant couldn’t help but nod in agreement. He thought to withdrew his hand from the table, where Mrs. Klose’s fingers still brushed his knuckles. But, to his shame, he kept it there. “Well, whatever you do, and whoever helps—they certainly do so with care. I didn’t see anything out of place. It’s a perfect garden.”
“Everyone is very careful. It’s a small little rule we have around here,” the woman said, smiling again. “I don’t really like it when people break my plants. They’re friends of mine.” She gave a disarming chuckle, and finally removed her hand from the back of the Sergeant’s.