by A. I. Nasser
Rachel hesitated. “We’re all going to Hell for this,” she said. “You know that, right?”
“The sins of the fathers,” Daniel said. “This isn’t our doing.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Daniel.”
Rachel walked out and slammed the study door behind her.
From the Journal of Jeremiah Carter.
Melington. September 23rd, 1826.
Another child has gone missing.
I cannot express how much this disturbs me. My heart goes out to the child’s family, for only I and my own can truly understand how they must feel right now. It is a terrible tragedy. One that is inexcusable.
I am angered beyond all explanation. My hands shake as I write, my words illegible even to my eyes. It is now that I truly believe my Allison was taken forcefully, against her will. I imagine her screaming and kicking against her captor, and my hands ache to reach out and fight for her.
The Council gathered today to discuss search efforts, again resorting to petty strategies of little consequence. I feel that these meetings are only held to count heads and make sure everyone still recognizes the authority of everyone else. I have seen the look on the faces of many, though, and it is not the placid looks of men and women who will let this atrocity go unpunished. There are already rumors of who is responsible, names resounding between circles of hushed conversation as town members speculate the perpetrator’s identity.
Two missing children in one season, and on the same day of the month. I must admit there is much doubt that this is a coincidence.
I have warned the boys to stay near the house, forbidding them from venturing far without me. They have not taken it well, their favorite spot being the lake two miles west of our lands. But a man must do what he feels necessary to protect his family. Their cries of protest fall on deaf ears, and I have threatened them with the belt if they disobey.
My Abbey cried today. I believe it is a sign that she is recovering from her ailment, albeit slowly. I have vowed to stand by her side on her journey to recovery, and I will keep my vows. She is greatly missed. I will do all I can to assure her of my presence and love.
I pray these days end well.
Chapter 4
Night came quickly in Melington during September, and the careless could easily find themselves caught in the cold bursts of wind that usually accompanied the darkness. People would escape indoors where the warmth provided shelter from the fingers of cold that always found a way through whatever they were wearing.
Alan feared the dark, enough to force him to turn on every light in the house, his discomfort quickly giving way to the coziness he felt in the warm glow. He made his way into the kitchen, instinctively turning on the kettle as he continued into the garage.
The movers had come earlier than he had expected, his roommate back in Maine having been tasked with making sure that the rest of his things were sent after he had arrived at Melington.
Alan stood pensively in the small garage, satisfied that everything had been sent safely, unsure as to how he would go about turning the garage into his workstation. His father’s old work table was still pushed to one side, random tools he had deemed unworthy left lying on top and collecting dust.
It was late, and he toyed with the idea of postponing the work for another day, but he knew he would sleep terribly knowing that the boxes were in the garage, untouched. He rolled up his sleeves, took in a deep breath and went to work.
Alan moved his father’s work table to the center of the garage, using it as his point of operations as he lifted one box after the other and looked inside. The most important ones he piled to one side, while those he believed he could tackle later were pushed to the very back. He went to work removing the shelves off one of the walls, clearing it of nails and pegs, readying it for what he had to do next.
When he was satisfied, he returned to the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee and ventured back. He stared at the empty wall as he drank, his eyes imagining the final look of it, drawing imaginary lines across where he would be spending the next few hours working.
He grabbed the first of the many boxes, lifting it onto the table and quickly emptying its contents. Volumes of files found their place to one side, and were quickly accompanied by more as Alan worked through one box after the other. When there was no longer any space left on the table, Alan sat on the floor and surrounded himself with more stacks and piles of files.
After almost an hour, he had emptied all twenty boxes he had labeled ‘research,’ the files surrounding him looking like a temp’s worst nightmare. The sheer volume of them was enough to make anyone anxious, but Alan knew them inside out. He had stared at every sheet of paper inside those files for hours on end, trying to make sense of their contents, find a clue he had missed or connect one to the other.
Going through them now would be child’s play.
He grabbed the first batch, each one with a white tag stuck to a corner over which a name had been written. He took the first, opening and emptying its contents in the little space he had left empty on the table for solely that purpose. A picture of a smiling blonde girl not much older than eight, stared back at him. He instinctively found himself smiling back, whispering the girl’s name from memory as he tears filled his eyes.
Alan looked over at the wall and mentally framed a spot in the top left corner. He grabbed the step ladder and set it up, carrying with him the staple gun and file contents from the table. He placed the girl’s picture right in the center of its designated spot and stapled it in place. He looked at the picture, lost for a few seconds in her innocence and the brightness in her eyes that came with a child’s idea that the world was perfect and safe.
A tear fell from his eye, and he quickly brushed it away. Within seconds he had stapled the rest of the contents around the girl’s picture, and was down the ladder and at his workstation emptying out the next of many files.
He repeated what he had done with the little girl, this time a ten-year-old boy with brown locks and braces, smiling at the camera eagerly. He whispered the boy’s name, his eyes closed, as if in greeting, and added him to the wall.
By the tenth file, Alan was working on auto-pilot, having had found a comfortable momentum that left little room for thoughts about the many children whose pictures he was hanging up.
After nearly two hours, sweaty and tired, hands grim with dirt and hair unkempt, Alan stepped back and gazed upon his handiwork. He took in the tapestry of colorful pictures, graying paper and yellow clippings. He stared up at the faces of over seventy children, and they stared back at him, their smiles disarming and their eyes glowing.
Alan felt his entire body begin to shake. He fell to his knees, hugging himself as the emotions he had kept bottled up since his return rushed through.
***
Deborah Adams felt an ache in her chest.
It came suddenly, as if she had unknowingly been stabbed, but from within. She could almost feel the pain reaching out from inside her, threatening to break free, tearing through her chest and escaping into the world to find another victim.
She dropped the plate she had been cleaning into the sink, her soapy hand reaching up to where she felt the unfamiliar stabbing. She pressed the palm of her hand hard against it and rubbed. She winced as the stabbing turned into throbbing, as if the pain’s potency were linked to her heartbeat, more and more vigorous with every passing second.
Then, just as quickly as it had started, the pain subsided.
Deborah took in a deep breath, exhaling slowly as she fought through the sudden dizziness in her head. Her mind raced for a plausible explanation for what had just happened, a feeling she had never experienced before, and its strangeness, puzzling.
She pondered whether or not to continue with the dishes, then decided that she had better sit down. She walked out of the kitchen, trudging down the small hall into her living room where the sound of the television was beckoning.
Michael Cole sat on the c
ouch, head laid back and eyes closed as he snored. Deborah reached down, turned off the television and tossed the remote into the man’s lap, scaring him awake.
“I was watching that,” he said, an automatic comment that sounded ridiculous coupled with his blinking eyes and yawn.
“You were watching Glee?” Deborah asked, sitting down slowly in the La-Z-Boy by the coffee table.
“Was that what was on?”
Deborah nodded and winced when a small sharp pain stabbed out and instantly disappeared, reminding her that it was still lurking around.
“Are you okay?” Michael asked.
“I don’t know,” Deborah replied. “I think so.”
Michael nodded, grabbed the remote and turned the television back on.
That’s it? Deborah thought. That’s all I get?
She had started dating Michael Cole two years back, much to the dismay of her mother, who had no love for the Chairman, let alone his son. He had been charming and exciting, a real mystery who had instantly grabbed her attention, and she had fallen for him quickly.
During their first six months together, he had held up the charade well enough, making sure she had seen nothing of the other side of him. Her mother had warned her about the Coles, telling her that she couldn’t trust any of them, let alone sleep with them. It was like playing with fire, her mother had said.
Over time, Michael’s visage slowly dropped and Deborah began to notice how similar he was to his father. She had sworn to end it months ago, but she had never fully been able to bring herself to do it. Somehow she had grown comfortable having someone in her life that cared about her, other than her mother. She’d forgotten what it felt like to really be close to someone since, well, Alan Carter.
Her mind instantly went to Alan and his interview. She couldn’t remember what they had talked about, only the complete ease and comfort she had felt being around him again. It was as if she had been missing a part of her for so long and had finally found it.
She looked forward to seeing him every day, talking to him, catching up on twenty years of stories and experiences.
Deborah suddenly felt a rush of adrenaline, instantly excited at the prospect of Alan in her life again.
It was going to be a wonderful year.
***
Blake Collins hated the dark.
He had never been bothered by it before, but ever since his mother’s death, it had become a suffocating nothingness that he couldn’t bear. He pictured his mother, dead, eyes closed forever in an eternal darkness, never able to wake up. It scared him, terrified him, and he didn’t even want to imagine what that must be like.
That was why, when the small night light beside the door flickered and went off, he was instantly sitting up in bed. The wind outside had picked up, and through the window he could see the dark figures of autumn leaves dancing, their beautiful morning colors replaced by a dark gray that appeared and disappeared as they raced below the streetlights.
The light that came in through the window threw shadows across the walls, grotesque shapes he had learned long ago were harmless, although he had never been convinced of that. The rest of the room seemed like a dark void, black and forlorn, and as he waited for his eyes to adjust, he heard a tapping coming from the shadows.
“Dad!” he called out, unwilling to get out of bed. The bedroom door was across the room, in the darkness, and he wouldn’t be caught dead walking into that.
“Dad!” he called out again, concentrating to hear for any sign of his father’s approach.
The tapping came again, and Blake’s head quickly snapped to the window, hoping it was a branch against the glass. There was nothing there, though, and when the tapping continued, he immediately knew its source.
Blake’s eyes fell on the closet door. He could feel his skin crawl, and his breathing quickened. The tapping was coming from behind the closet door, and he quickly tried to convince himself that it was nothing more than his imagination playing tricks on him.
The tapping didn’t stop, coming harder, more confident, as if whoever was behind the closet door was actually asking for permission to come in. Blake looked over at the bedroom door, the uninviting darkness, and then back at the closet. He was frozen in place, unable to think clearly, completely forgetting about his father and whether or not he was coming to save him.
Blake’s eyes widened as he watched the closet door creak open, slowly, and a hand reach out from inside and grasp the edge as it pushed it all the way. His heart instantly jumped into his throat and his body began to shake, the tremors racing through him like wildfire. He felt something warm spread out from where he sat, and a part of his mind, the part that had decided that what was happening right now was just a dream, wondered what his father would say about his wetting the bed.
The closet door swung open completely, creaking outwards, and from the darkness within came a soft chuckle. The voice that followed was harsh and raspy, reminding Blake of the sound teeth grinding against each other made.
“We are going to have so much fun.”
From the Journal of Jeremiah Carter.
Melington. September 28th, 1826.
The boy has not been found.
The search continues, of course, but I already know he will not be found. We have searched the entire woods surrounding the town, and have even called upon the help of neighboring towns, all of whom were more than willing to assist in our efforts. I have met many strangers who have shown valor in their perseverance, fighting through the harsh cold nights alongside the rest of us, some even willing to continue until dawn.
It is clear what needs to be done, and the Council has voted to carry out a thorough investigation of the matter. A rider was sent to bring word to the proper officials in Hartford, but we will not wait for word upon his return.
Chairman Cole has already begun the proper process, and has singled out the men and women we were certain could not have committed such an atrocity. Both children belonged to founding families, and it is quite obvious that no member in said families would commit such a crime.
There are a few men and women that are new to Melington, some only months in our midst, their past still unknown. I have been tasked to speak with a few, and I have vowed to take this responsibility very seriously. If there is, in any way, an opportunity to retrieve any information vital in our efforts, I will find it and use it to the best of my abilities.
Four names have been assigned to me, and as I read through them, I realize that I know very little about them. It is strange how Melington has suddenly become home to strangers. If my mother were still alive, she would have chastised me for my unholy behavior. She had been the one in our family prone to gathering families together and forming a community out of Melington beyond the chairs of the Council.
Abbey was much like her, and I am certain that if she were of full health, she would have taken to this task with more vigor than I could ever muster.
I spent the afternoon training the boys on some of the more important tasks on the farm that have usually been my responsibility. With Abbey lost to us, the added burdens that I have to bear have taken their toll on me, and I need as much assistance as I can muster. I have been advised to hire a helping hand, but I do not have the finances for such a solution.
Tomorrow I will begin my inquiries, and I pray they are fruitful.
Chapter 5
The first thing Deborah noticed when she walked into her science class was the empty desk near the back usually occupied by a half-interested Blake Collins. She felt a slight tug in her chest, a feeling that bordered on uneasiness, and she quickly pushed it aside as she began her lesson.
She had hoped for a little one on one with the boy today, but apparently that would have to wait. She worried about what his current absence might mean. She hoped his father had talked to him, had maybe even given him a chance to take a day off and wrestle with a few emotions, but deep down she had a feeling that there was more to it than that.
S
he wrapped up her class quickly, her eyes constantly looking over at the empty desk, and had even ventured asking a few of his classmates about him. No one had known anything, and what had been worse was that no one seemed to really care. Deborah beat herself up for not noticing it sooner. The boy had obviously been having trouble among his peers as well.
When the bell rang, Deborah sat at her desk quietly, lost in thought, as her students filed out one by one, leaving their homework sheets in the tray marked ‘inbox’. She smiled at a few of the more lively ones, the ones who were usually quick to raise their hand and answer her questions, but she couldn’t stop staring at Blake’s seat.
When the last student had exited, she collected her things, threw the homework sheets in between the pages of her textbook and made her way out. She had a couple of hours in between classes, and her mother would be expecting a proper update on yesterday’s happenings.
Rachel Adams had come back from the Council meeting looking more distraught than usual, and for the first time in years, Deborah had actually seen the exhaustion clearly on her mother’s face. She usually looked like she was carrying a heavy burden, but Deborah had always assumed that the worry came with the job. After yesterday, she couldn’t be too sure. She was thinking of convincing her mother to step down from the Council and concentrate on the school.
But, knowing Rachel Adams, Deborah was certain what the response would be.
She made her way down the school halls, smiling politely at fellow teachers as they passed by her, coaxing students to their classes, and gently pushing her way into the principal’s office. The secretary gave her only a quick look before going back to the computer and typing away like her life depended on it. Deborah could feel the displeasure from across the room.
“Is she in?” Deborah asked.