At The End of Every Show, They Set A Ballerina On Fire (Part Two)

  

I was trying to parse out what the girl in the seat next to me had meant, but I was interrupted.

Madame Taglioni took the stage. Her draping emerald gown swept across the floor, and even with her limp, she had the unmistakable movement of someone who had studied dance.

Although the headshot I had seen of her had to have been from fifty years ago, the woman now standing so comfortably in the spotlight looked remarkably young. Her hair was a bright white, pulled back into a tight dancer’s bun, but her face was un-weathered by age. She looked to be in her 40’s, tops.

“Thank you all for coming,” she spoke into the microphone, “Once again, my dancers and I are so honored to be able to share this with you.” Her voice was deep and rich, and she spoke slowly, not in the rushed way some people do when they’re on stage and nervous.

She smiled. “We’ve got quite a show for you tonight.”

As she spoke, shapes moved from the wings of the stage. Nearly 30 dancers quickly and gracefully lined up behind their leader. Young men and women, ages looking to be from 17-21. Quite a few were dressed in plain tulle tutus or pants, as brisk a white as Taglioni’s hair.

A few were in more complex outfits. A handsome young man all in lilac, wearing a crown that sparkled so brightly in the lights that I thought it must be made with real jewels and gold; A young woman dressed all in black, a large white ruffle around her neck, her face painted pale but her eyes smudged with charcoal.

But my eyes were only focused on them for a moment, before being drawn to the last figure to join the stage.

She walked lightly up beside Madame Taglioni, as the latter smiled at her proudly before speaking in to the microphone. “May I present to you, in this year’s 50th anniversary production of Le Papillon, from Madame Taglioni’s Ballet, your Farfalla—Emma Livry!” The girl sitting next to me let out a little excited gasp as Emma Livry stopped, turned, and curtsied at the audience.

Her costume was beautiful. Crème tulle and muslin, interrupted by patterned blue silk that ran up onto her silver lined corset, continuing to the large, elaborate butterfly wings that sprung from the fabric over her shoulder blades. She smiled as the audience cheered.

But, I didn’t trust it.

I realize that ballet is incredibly difficult. It’s more of a physical feat than the majority of sports. And therefore I know there must be a great deal of stress that dancers go to, to prepare for performances like this. Especially with the scale and fame of this particular performance.

But her face looked... pained. She held her curtsy completely still, and she kept her smile wide and gleaming, but even from my seat I could tell that it didn’t meet her eyes.

As the cheering died down, the girl with the goldfish ring leaned closer to me, and I bent to meet her. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they? The wings?”

I nodded impatiently. If this girl was going to talk, I wanted to hear more about what she had said earlier. About hoping that Emma ‘made it’, whatever that means. Before I could ask, the girl kept continued.

“I hear they only get sewn in three weeks before the performance.”

I frowned. “What?”

“I know; they only give her three weeks to figure out how to dance with the weight of the wings. It must throw off everything, her spins, her jumps...” the girl tacked on a few more things to this list, but I had momentarily stopped listening.

Instead, I had turned back to Emma.

What I thought had been fabric on her shoulder blades, was something much worse.

The actual fabric of her dress scooped down in the back, perfectly displaying the beautiful blue wings that had been visibly sewn into the flesh of the girl’s back. Pink scar tissue intermittent with blue thread shone shiny in the stage lights, and I felt my stomach turn.

I glanced around at the faces in the audience, to catch any glimpse of horror or disgust, to match what I was feeling inside. But, I saw nothing but awestricken delight.

“You know, in their 32nd year, they only made it part of the way through Act One because Prince Djalma’s crown got caught on Farfalla’s wing and ripped the whole thing off!” Sickeningly, she giggled. “They had to give everyone refunds. But they haven’t had any trouble since. My favorite character is probably...”

The girl’s prattling was cut off, as Madame Taglioni began to speak again. “It has been my pleasure to watch Emma grow into this role. Although it was tough competition this year, there can only be one Farfalla.” The woman smiled fondly at the girl, like a cat leering over a mouse it had caught. “And Emma has certainly earned her wings.”

At this, the crowd broke out into uproarious laughter. I only felt more nauseous.

“This year, we are thrilled to have a very special guest.” There were whispers amongst the audience, as Madame Taglioni motioned to the right of the stage. “Here to pass the torch,” another smattering of laughter that I didn’t quite understand, “is last year’s Farfalla, Franziska Wilde!”

There was a creak of metal that reverberated throughout the theater. As the crowd began to applaud and cheer, a tall man dressed all in black began to push a wheelchair onto the stage. In it was a severely disfigured young woman.

She wore a light pink dress that covered much of her body, and a scarf around her head, but it couldn’t hide the extensive damage that had been done to virtually every inch of skin that remained visible.

Her face had the same sheen to it that the scar tissue on Emma’s back had. The light pink of poorly healed skin blended in with the blush of the dress. Wispy strands of brittle hair came down to her shoulders, one of which ended in a knotted stump where the arm had been removed.

Still, she smiled at the crowd, her face creasing like balled up paper. And, disturbingly enough, when she leaned forwards slightly, I could see them:

Small blue tattered shapes protruded from her back, and I recognized what they were—Farfalla’s blue butterfly wings, cut down to the root.

The man left Franziska next to Madame Taglioni and Emma, and stepped forward to lower the microphone to her height.

As she spoke, her voice sent a shiver down my spine. “Hello,” she started, with all the tone and texture of a metal fork against ceramic. “I’m so happy to be here.” She carefully turned her head to look at Emma. “There is no greater joy than to perform on this stage as Farfalla. I wish you luck.”

A resurgence of clapping at this, and as Madame Taglioni kept her serene smile, I could see Emma’s falter. She was looking at Franziska, frail and broken in the bright lights of the stage.

Her hand unconsciously moved towards the impressive wings on her back, as her eyes traced the ruined remains of the one’s on Franziska’s. There was something in her eyes, like she was witnessing something that brought her pain and understanding, all at once. Unfortunately, I'd pieced together what it was.

She was looking at her future.

Soon after, Act One of Le Papillon began. 

---

Credits

 

At The End of Every Show, They Set A Ballerina On Fire (Part One)

  

The tickets came in an envelope. On the outside, in handwriting I didn’t recognize, was the name Samuel Singer. My name. There was no return address.

They arrived at the office, and someone had put the envelope on my desk. There were two slips of paper, maroon and gold foil. The logo was a smiling young woman, with dark hair, pale skin, and two different colored eyes—one blue, one green. Behind her, red and orange flames.

They read:

Come See What’s Hot at :

Madame Taglioini’s Ballet.

Celebrating 50 years of Le Papillon

Masaniello Hall

ADMIT ONE

I turned each of them over. One had “Night One”, and the other “Night Two.”

To be honest, at first I thought it was some sort of weird prank. Somebody at work, Heather probably, giving me a ticket to some sort of fake burlesque show. But after some research, I’m surprised to say, it seems to be legit.

Madame Taglioni’s Ballet is one of the most exclusive dance experiences in the world. It’s impossible to get a ticket, unless you know someone. And I didn’t think I did. But apparently, someone knows me.

They’re doing Le Papillon. From what I’ve read, they always do Le Papillon, ever since Madame Taglioni played Farfalla back in the day. Farfalla is the coveted role, the one that all of the dancers fight for—a girl turned into a butterfly by the story’s villain.

On their website, they have an entire page devoted to all of the past year’s Farfalla’s. Headshots of young women, all the way back fifty years to Madame Taglioni herself. Dark hair, one blue eye, one green—it’s obvious she’s the inspiration for the ticket. This year’s Farfalla is someone named Emma Livry. I’ve never heard of her, but what do I know about ballet?

Another strange thing—all of the headshots had brackets of years under them, like gravestones. I had a hard time pinning down what exactly they were. A large portion of them, especially towards the beginning, were sort of short. Twenty years or so. At first I thought it might be how long each woman worked with Taglioni’s Ballet, until some of them were fifty, sixty, seventy year expanses. Madame Taglioni’s had a first year, but the space for the second was left blank. There were only a few others like that. It gave me brief pause, but I didn’t spend too much time on it.

Looking back now, I should have known.

It’s not my usual type of story that I cover, but I’ll take what I can get. Things have been quiet since the McAfee house. Not that I minded a little bit of quiet, after that ordeal. And judging by the event’s internet fame, an inside scoop at Madame Taglioni’s Ballet might be just what Bad Habit needs. That’s what I thought, anyway.

As usual, I was terribly, horribly, irredeemably wrong.

The theater itself was odd. If you could call it a theater. Masaniello Hall was, strangely enough, only about an hour away from Habitsville, an hour and a half if you drive around Rhodes’ Creek, which I did. The ballet travels across the entire world, but oddly, they always do Le Papillon in Masaniello Hall. The outside was plain, and at first, I had been sure I was in the wrong place. It was on a dusty street in downtown Augustus. Though I’d been to the city before, this street was one I was completely unfamiliar with.

The outside of the building that matched the address I’d found was devoid of any signs or decoration, and it was obviously not large enough to hold an audience for what I anticipated to be a very large performance. Plus, there didn’t seem to be anyone else here.

It was dark, and the street lamps were a muted, dull yellow in the damp fog that had begun to settle. The pavement was dusty, the cobblestones cracked. Dark storefronts and boarded up windows haunted the streets. I had taken a taxi, and was regretting it, standing alone in the half-darkness. I had just raised my phone to my ear, to call another car back, when a voice stopped me.

“Are you here for the show?”

I jumped, then squinted through the fog. I took a few step forwards, towards the building at the end of the street, the one that was supposed to be the theater. There, speaking through small holes in the glass pane in front of him, but a young man. He was standing at a desk behind the glass, and he wore a maroon satin vest. He was smiling at me, but it wasn’t a creepy smile. Just a polite, customer-service smile.

I walked over. “I think so. The ballet?”

He nodded, and I instantly felt relieved. I was starting to think it really was a prank. Or that I had a few screws loose. He motioned to a small opening at the bottom of the glass. “Ticket, please.”

I got out the ticket that read “Night One.” He looked it over, then pointed to his right. “Just through the door, sir.” It was an old, wooden door, that did not look like it led to a high class ballet performance. I hesitated. This didn’t seem safe, nor smart. But I’m a reporter. If I want interesting stories, I have to do interesting things. Even it gets me into trouble.

And wow, was I about to get into some serious trouble.

I opened the door and was instantly confused. Instead of a hallway, or room, like in a normal building, there was just a staircase going down. I peeked my head back over to the young man, who was still watching me. “Just down the stairs?” I asked.

He nodded patiently. “Enjoy the show.”

So, I went down.

It was beautiful. The theater is all white and marble. Light, airy—French. They have dainty pastries on a long table in the back, and a bartender serving cocktails. The theater was modest size, usually to keep the show exclusive, but there was quite a bit of people there. I quickly sat down in a seat near the back, so as not to draw attention to myself, and so I could watch the happenings in the theater without being noticed. Due to the secrecy surrounding the event, and the suspicious way that I procured my ticket, I figured it might be best to keep it quiet that a member of the press was there. But the more I looked, the more I could sense it.

There was something strange about this place.

For one, everyone there was obviously rich. I was severely underdressed, but that wasn’t what was unusual. These people weren’t just rich. They were eccentric rich. Monocles and jeweled canes, faces painted stark white—one woman had her hair twisted up into an elaborate cage, in which sat a large, blue, very much alive parakeet. There was a man with his teeth and long nails filed down into points. An old woman wore a shining necklace of what looked like polished human teeth, strung up like pearls.

As you might have guessed, I was out of place. Everyone there was obviously, loudly wealthy. They were no doubt entitled to whatever they wanted, and were accustomed to getting the best of the best.

So why did no one sit in the front three rows?

There isn’t assigned seating, it’s first come, first serve. Yet, as more people took their seats, they all silently avoided the first three rows. The kid who had taken my ticket outside hadn’t given any special instruction, not to me at least.

The lights flashed. A young woman sat next to me, looking fairly normal, save for the large glass ring she wore. It had a tiny goldfish swimming within it.

“I can’t believe we’re here, right?” she half-whispered to me. Her eyes were wide with the thrill of being in the show’s audience.

“Yeah,” I said, unconvincingly.

“Especially with Emma Livry as Farfalla,” she added excitedly. “She’s so talented.”

“Mm-hmm,” I agreed. The chatter was dying down now, and the lights sank to a low dim.

The girl next to me sighed. “I just hope she makes it.”

“Yeah—“ I started to absentmindedly agree. Then I blinked. “What?”

She turned to look at me. “Act Two. I hope she makes it. That she isn’t hurt too badly.”

“Hurt from what—“ I started, but before I could, the crowd burst into deafening applause.

Madame Taglioini, with stark white hair, the same bright blue and green eyes I could see twinkling in the spotlight, and a bit of a limp, had taken the stage. 

---

Credits

 

Three Days, Thirty Years Ago (Part Five) [FINALE]

  

The zipper was gone.

I felt along the cat’s underbelly even more frantically, but there was nothing but thick white fur. It hissed at my rough touch, and jumped off my lap. It trotted back to the doorway, and vanished around the corner as Tommy chuckled. “It’s such a fickle thing,” he sighed. “I remember when I first got it—”his smile twitched like a flickering light, “Well, maybe I don’t remember it so well—“

Tap

Tap

Tap

Tommy and I’s heads snapped upwards. Three precise knocks once more, coming from the ceiling. Just as it had once before.

Tommy looked at me, and I stared back. We maintained eye contact for a few heart beats. His smile was barely pasted on. His forehead shone with sweat and I could hear his shallow breathing. When he spoke, he did so through his gritted teeth.

“Must be the cat,” he just barely uttered.

I didn’t answer. Part of me was just paralyzed by sheer anxiety. Another, more dominant part, could only think of where those knocks were emanating from. Somehow, I knew.

The knocks were coming from the room behind the Blue Door.

Tommy rose to his feet, no doubt expecting to once again make a quick exit, to go off to wherever he had gone before. But this time, I stood as well. “What’s in there?” I asked, with as much confidence as I could muster.

Tommy froze. “In where?”

I squeezed both fists at my sides. “The room behind the Blue Door.”

Tommy let out a sound like a long, painful wheeze. “Nettles.”

The name wasn’t familiar, and yet, it strangely was. It was like the sweet smell that pervaded the entire house—the more I smelled it, the more I recognized it, the more I hated it. The moment I heard that name, I had this feeling. It was just on the cusp of nostalgia. But intensely, unabashedly frightening. Enough to chill my blood as it flowed through my veins. Tommy’s teeth were clenched so tight I thought they might crack. A vein in his forehead stood out, engorged and throbbing with his too-fast heartbeat. As I watched, a shudder ran through him.

No, not a shudder. Not a cringe of fear, the likes of which I had felt multiple times since arriving at the McAfee house. This was different. His entire being suddenly began to vibrate, and continued to do so, at a higher and higher velocity. Bits of spittle sprayed from his lips, still stuck in that terrible grimace. I thought he might be having some sort of stroke. But before I could take a step, whether forward or back, he stopped.

He was breathing heavily through his nose, a drip of snot working its way towards his mouth. He stared at me with his too-blue, bloodshot eyes. Then, he spoke.

“Where’s Heather?”

I blinked. The cat, the zipper, Tommy, the Blue Room, that disgusting sweet smell. All of it had been making my head and stomach turn so violently that I had completely forgotten about Heather. Heather, who had gone to investigate the Blue Room, and had yet to return.

Heather, who had gone somewhere she clearly was not supposed to go, in the McAfee house.

Slowly, I turned my head up, towards the ceiling above.

Tommy stared at me for a moment. Then, he let out a low, animalistic hiss. Before I knew what was happening, he had rounded the corner of the doorway.

I followed him. Tommy and I were sprinting to the room across the hall. To the kitchen.

We got there at about the same time. I looked around for the stairwell. Even though I had only just been in the room, I still had trouble finding it. Not finding it, really. Just seeing it.

But Tommy saw it right away, and like Heather had pointed it out to me, I could see that Tommy had seen it. We both ran to the bottom of the steps, and gazed up.

There it was. The dark, dark stair well, and at the top, a beacon of light: that pleasant, welcoming Blue Door.

And the rusted old padlock, hanging open on the handle.

Tommy took the first step, but the rest were a jumble of our limbs clawing our ways to the top. Although athletic, Tommy was still around fifty years old. I got there first.

“Don’t.”

My hand was on door knob. Tommy was one step from me.

I opened the Blue Door.

I knew what he would look like before I saw Him. And even now, I’m not sure I ever saw Him.

For such a bright Blue Door, the room behind it was infinitely dark.

And I can’t tell you what was inside. Because truly, I can’t remember.

Something like a lavender smudge in the center of a red-threaded sofa. And a smell so sweet I could taste it.

And then I was out.

I was sitting on that same sofa, in Tommy McAfee’s living room. The pale purring cat was on my lap. Tommy McAfee saw in the armchair across from me. Heather sat on my left.

I was breathing heavily and sweating. Heather was looking at me, concerned, and saying something. Tommy watched me, and sipped his coffee.

“Sam?”

“What?”

Heather frowned deeper. “Are you okay?”

I sat up, my arms weak and shaking. The cat stared at me with its blank eyes.

“What happened?” I asked blearily. I felt sick.

Tommy set his cup and its saucer on the side table next to him. “I think you might have fallen asleep. I don’t blame you. That sofa is really quite comfortable.” He smiled wide. “And the cat makes such a good blanket.”

I looked at the cat, and it stared back. I didn’t even want to reach for its stomach, to feel for what I feared was there. Instead, I pushed it off of my lap and onto the floor.

It landed on its feet, then turned so it faced me. Just to stare.

“Sam, that was kind of mean,” Heather said teasingly. She leaned down to stroke the cat’s head. It began to purr, but didn’t remove its gaze from me.

I nervously looked at the painting that still hung on the wall. My eyes settled on the figure that sat, so near where I sat. “Heather... what happened?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, still half bent over petting the cat.

“In the room behind the Blue Door.”

She faltered for only a fraction of a second before answering.

“What Blue Door?”

It was enough to draw my attention over to her. Her form bent forwards, fingertips to waxy pale fur. Her shirt pulled down just slightly in the back where she folded. I could see the very top of her back, and the tip of which I at first thought was a tattoo.

But I knew better now.

Heather had a zipper, too.

I had been halfway back to Habitsville when I realized I had taken the cat. Everything had happened so fast. When I saw what was on Heather’s back, I got up to leave. Tommy tried to stop me, but he couldn’t.

The cat sat in the passenger seat on the way back. Watching me. I had to pull over and throw up by the side of the road at one point. That sweet smell was still so potent, even miles from the house. I can still smell it a bit now, even as I write this.

Yes, I checked the cats stomach. After I vomited on the roadside, I looked. Nothing. No zipper.

I drove back to the office.

I carried the cat inside, because I wasn’t sure what else to do with it. I couldn’t leave it in the car in the middle of July. I didn’t know how I was going to tell my boss what had happened. That I didn’t get the full story, or even if I did, it wasn’t one that anyone wanted. That I had left Heather behind.

But when I walked in, there she was.

Heather was sitting at my desk. It was late now, so no one else was around. She stood up as she saw me walk into the room.

“Hey,” she said casually. “What’s with the cat?”

I knew I must have looked like a wreck, all sweating and shaky, dried throw-up on my shirt. I set the cat down on the desk nearest to me, and it stayed. Then, I walked right up to Heather, turned her around, and looked down the back of her shirt.

“Sam, what the hell?” she yelled, whirling back around and smacking my hands away. But I had already seen what I was looking for. There was nothing on Heather’s back.

“Sorry...” I muttered. “I thought I saw something.”

She frowned at me, but quickly was distracted by the cat I had placed on the table. She moved over to it and started stroking its head. I could hear its purr start up again, and it made my stomach turn.

“So where have you been?”

I blinked. “What?”

She kept looking at the cat, smiling softly at it as it nudged her hand. “You haven’t been to the office in a few days. Did you take time off to adopt a cat?” She laughed.

I felt the vomit rising again in my chest, but I forced it back down. “A few days? You haven’t seen me in a few days?”

She shook her head. “Nope.” She picked up the purring cat and cradled it in her arms like a baby. “But I’m glad I caught you before I left. This cat is so sweet.” She kissed it on the head.

“I have to go.”

I drove home. I don’t know what happened that day. If I imagined everything, if Heather was lying. Or maybe she just couldn’t remember, just like Tommy couldn’t remember 1980.

I was jealous of them. I wanted to forget. More than forget, I wanted to erase. Even if I couldn’t remember what I saw behind the Blue Door, the feeling was still there. The smell of the hydrangeas. The oil painting, the lilac smudge. The hot and cold feeling of a metal zipper on a cat’s warm stomach.

Nettles.

I didn’t find out what happened to those kids for those three days in 1980. Or, worse, maybe I did.

My name is Samuel Singer, and I’ve seen something I shouldn’t have. 

---

Credits

 

Three Days, Thirty Years Ago (Part Four)

  

The door at the top of the stairs was blue. It was a bright, baby blue, the color of the sky outside. The stairwell however, was dark. We had found it, oddly enough, in the kitchen.

That was the next room we had decided to investigate. It was a large kitchen, which made sense, given the grand size of the house. There were large gas stoves and cavernous double sinks. An entire staff could work in that room, easy. But it looked like nothing had been touched in a long time, maybe not ever.

Except, of course, the coffee maker. It still blinked a feeble red in the corner next to the refrigerator. A refrigerator that had had opened, only to find absolutely nothing inside.

That had been disconcerting enough. Until Heather noticed the dark stairwell and the blue door.

It's very presence had sent a chill down my spine. It didn't have anything strange on its own-- but it felt strange. Until Heather had pointed it out, I hadn't noticed it. But not just not noticed it-- it was like I couldn't notice it. Like my eyes wouldn't let themselves settle on the stairwell, or travel up the steps to what lie ahead. It was like my mind wanted me to just skate over it. To stay away.

Yet here I was, staring directly up the dimly lit stairwell in the kitchen, directly at the Blue Door.

"Tommy lives alone, right?" Heather asked quietly.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure," I answered.

She frowned, then raised an arm to point up the incline. "Then why would he need that?" I followed her gesture up to what hung from the door's handle-- a large, rusted, brass padlock.

I wiped my sweating hands on my pants. "We should go back to the parlor. Tommy's probably back by now." Heather wasn't looking at me, though. Instead, she was taking one cautious step into the stairwell. Immediately, I took a step back.

She stepped from the bright lights of the kitchen, into the dark shroud of the stairwell, and I felt a sudden aversion to her. It was the way you might feel uneasy about catching just a glimpse of something just barely rising to the surface of a dark pond. I didn't like it. But I pushed the feeling out of my mind. "What are you doing?" I hissed.

She waved me back with one hand as she continued up the steps. "I just want a closer look. Tell McAfee I'm in the bathroom or something."

I hesitated. I didn't want to separate from Heather. I wish I could say it was because I didn't want her to be alone in the house, that I was worried for her. But that wasn't true. Heather could take care of herself. I just didn't want to be alone with Tommy.

"Sam, go," Heather said as she reached the top. "Before he gets suspicious." She stood there, next to the Blue Door. I swallowed the urge to tell her come back down, to get away from it.

"Fine." Then, I turned, and went back to the parlor, thinking that Heather would be fine. That I would be fine.

How naive.

Tommy was already there by the time I got back. He was sitting calmly in his armchair. He held the cup of coffee, the one I knew to be filled with plastic in his hand. His other hand was absentmindedly stroking the large, pale cat that sat in his lap. It was staring at me as I entered, and I could hear it's loud purr.

"Sorry," I said quickly, returning once more to the sewn-up sofa across from him. "I was helping Heather find the restroom."

Tommy smiled at me. "And did you find it?"

His voice sounded newly sinister, and my mind flashed to the blue door. "Yes, we found it. She should be back soon."

His smile faltered. "Doubtful."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

My heart sped up in my chest as Tommy, still stroking the cat, slowly peered in his coffee cup and frowned. "You know, Mr. Singer," he said slowly, "Sometimes I don't feel quite like myself." Then, he very carefully tilted his cup over, until it was upside down. Nothing came out, and his frowned deepened.

"Are you okay, Mr. McAfee?" I asked, trying to keep my voice from shaking. I was extremely nauseous at this point, both because of Heather's absence, and the conversation I was having-- but there was something else. The sweet smell, the synthetic hydrangeas' scent, had suddenly gotten even stronger.

Tommy kept staring into his cup. It was as though he had just realized, for the very first time, that there was no coffee inside. "You want to talk about those three days, Mr. Singer," he said quietly, his face unusually blank. "But I don't remember. It's as if..." he paused. "It's as if I fell asleep in 1980, and I've been in a dream ever since. It's a fine dream. I am okay. But every now and then, I get a glimpse of it-- of reality." He stared even harder into his cup.

He had stopped petting the cat, and it was getting up. It's stretched, pushing its rump into the air. It lightly jumped down from Tommy's lap. It was looking at me. It started to come over. Before I could stop it, it jumped into my lap.

I didn't want to touch it. Tommy was across from me, still staring at his plastic coffee. I could see his eyes had glazed over. One small tear had begun to make its way down his cheek.

Very slowly, I started to pet the cat. It's fur felt strange, almost waxy. It was staring at me, it's expression as blank as Tommy's. With a shaking, but cautious hand, I slowly slid my hand around to its stomach.

There. There it was. There was a zipper on that cat's stomach. I traced the metallic grid that went down the length of its middle, until I felt it. The tab. I hesitated. Why would I pull it? What would happen if I did? The cat began to purr.

Suddenly, Tommy snapped his head back up. I yanked my hand out from under the cat's stomach, away from the zipper.

Though the tear was still shining wet on his cheek, Tommy's frown had bent itself back up into his earnest grin. He laughed. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Singer, I think I dozed off for a moment." I didn't know what to say. I watched as he took another sip of his fake coffee. He looked at his cup for a few seconds. "I had the strangest dream," he said cheerfully. He stared at it intently, but his facial expression didn't change.

Then, he held out his cup, and overturned it onto the floor.

A smattering of coffee fell from the cup, and onto the wooden floor. It could tell from the steam that it was still hot.

Tommy smiled fondly at the stain, then set his cup back onto the doily.

I reached my hand slowly back down, against the flesh of the rumbling cat in my lap, down to its core.

The zipper was gone. 

---

Credits

 

Three Days, Thirty Years Ago (Part Three)

  

I was completely sure I had felt a zipper on that cat's stomach.

But Tommy was settling back into his armchair, his coffee cup and saucer close to his chest. Heather sipped her's next to me, then cleared her throat. "So, we were hoping we could talk to you about the events of 1980."

"1980," Tommy repeated, grinning that same manic grin. "A great year. Shame about Lennon though. My parents loved the Beatles." Heather paused. She, like me, probably couldn't tell if the strange man was joking. That is, until he let out a high-pitched, frantic giggle of a laugh. His body convulsed and his cup teetered on the china. Though this was disturbing to say the least, Heather and I both were able to work up a nervous laugh.

Tommy's cackling subsided, and he wiped an invisible tear from the corner of his eye. "I'm kidding, of course. Just a little joke." He regained his composure. "You want to know about July of 1980. What happened with me and the others, those three days, right here in Rhodes' Creek." He took another sip of coffee, and I felt myself subconsciously lean forward with anticipation. "You've read the reports, no doubt. You know what happened."

"We know what you said happened," I said, and Heather gave me a nudge. I didn't know where this sudden brashness came from. It was like the closer I felt I was to answers, the more forcefully I was willing to reach for them.

The switch-like transition came again, and Tommy's face dropped once more to a deep frown. "I don't like what you're suggesting, Mr. Singer," he said in a quiet, stern voice I hadn't heard him use. I opened my mouth to apologize, but before I could, he spoke again.

"But, you're right."

I blinked in surprise. "I am?"

Tommy solemnly nodded. "You are." Another torturously slow sip of coffee. At this point, Heather and I were on the edge of our seats on the sewn-up sofa.

"We told the police we had been lost in the woods, but that wasn't exact...true. The truth is," he paused. "I have no memory of where I was for those three days. None of us did."

The was a shock. Apart from the incredibly validating feeling of discovering that I had been right, that the report hadn't been accurate, I felt something else-- doubt. It seemed all too easy to loosen Tommy's lips. After all, this was a lie he had maintained for thirty years. Why break his story now? And why to Heather and me?

"But why lie?" Heather asked, her brow furrowed.

"I'm not quite sure that I did," He paused. "We woke up on the outskirts of the woods, with no idea that any time had passed from when we were playing together three days prior. We walked back to my house and found the place surrounded by police. I learned my dear parents were in custody for something they obviously hadn't done." Tommy shook his head. "I begged the others, before we went to the police station, to tell the story about getting lost. I didn't want any suspicion put upon my family. And, they agreed."

He took another long sip of coffee, then smiled at Heather and me. Even though I hadn't trusted the smile before, I definitely didn't now. He seemed different, somehow. He had been confident when he had found us out front, but he seemed nervous now that we were in the house and he had said his piece. He was tapping his long fingers against the side of his cup, and slightly rocking back and forth. I was surprised none of the coffee sloshed over the side.

"Wow," Heather started, "that's..." she trailed off, and I didn't blame her.

"It's quite a story," I finished for her.

"Yes, well," Tommy began, rather hastily. "We may never get the full story. Such is life." His intense blue eyes weren't looking at Heather and I anymore. Instead, they were scanning the flat white cieling above us.

I tried to inconspicuously look as well, but I couldn't see whatever it was that had his attention.

"So none of you ever remembered anything, or tried to figure it out? The others didn't want to know?" Heather asked incredulously.

"It seemed like the sort of thing that was best to be left alone," Tommy said, eyes still turned upwards. I could see beads of sweat forming on his forehead and upper lip. "there are things... things that require no explanation. Things that just are." He visibly swallowed. "Things that---"

We all jumped. There was a sound, a series of sounds, that broke the silence of the house. Three sharp, distinct knocks, coming from directly above us.

Tommy immediately jumped to his feet. "Oh," he said frantically, "Probably the cat. It likes to get into all sort of trouble."

I shuddered at the reminder of the cat. Tommy placed his cup and saucer on the nearest doily-covered table next to his armchair. "I'd better go make sure it hasn't broken anything valuable." Tommy had left the room before we could respond.

Heather and I sat on the sofa in silence as we heard his hastened footsteps fade. Then, she turned to me. "I don't buy it."

I shook my head. "Me neither."

"'I don't remember' is pretty convenient," she said, then stood up. She started walking towards the doorway.

"What are you doing?" I hissed.

"It's a big house. We probably can snoop around the next room while he looks for his cat."

My nausea increased. "I don't think we should. This place is really creeping me out." I paused. "And that cat..." I considered bringing up what I thought I had felt on the cat's stomach, but decided against it. It was probably just my imagination.

Heather laughed. "What, are you afraid of cats now, too? You're not much of an intrepid reporter, Sam. Why would you even choose to pick up the Bad Habits column if you get freaked out so easily?" She had a point. Before I could retaliate, she took a step back to turn to the doorway, and her foot caught on the edge of Tommy's armchair. Her stumbled jostled the side table, knocking Tommy's cup of coffee off its saucer and onto the armchair, ruining the cream upholstery.

Except it didn't.

Heather quickly picked up the cup, try to minimize the spread of the stain-- only, there wasn't one. She looked into the cup, frowning. Then, she wordlessly tilted it towards me.

It was a prop. A ceramic cup filled with dark roast-colored plastic. A fake cup of coffee that Tommy McAfee had been pretending to sip for the entirety of our conversation.

Heather and I met eyes.

I sighed.

"Let's go check out the next room." 

---

Credits

 

Three Days, Thirty Years Ago (Part Two)

  

"Are you sure we should do this?"

Heather gave me a playful, but firm punch on the shoulder. "You said it yourself, that report looked really sketchy. There's definitely something going on." She looked out the windshield to the sprawling lawn ahead. "Besides, even if we're wrong, what's the worst that could happen? McAfee kick us out of his house?"

I nodded, but grimaced. I drove up the driveway, which was long, and lined by trees. All of the greenery leading up to the house was impressive, actually. The other yards on the nearby streets had been respectable, but everything here had a sort of vibrancy that the other lacked. The grass and leaves were so green, and as we neared the house, I could see that the hydrangeas were in bloom. Each were vibrant pinks and purples, and appeared meticulously taken care of. Not a single wilted petal on any of the plants.

We got out of the car, and took in the fresh air. Even the breeze smelled sweeter here. As soon as we had rounded the corner into Rhodes' Creek the drops had stopped, but it didn't even have that musty, after-rain scent. The water that remained gave everything the glistening effect of dew in sunlight. "This place is great," Heather said, taking in the view. In nodded in agreement.

The house was stark white against the blue sky. It was one of those Tudor style homes, with sharp points of gabled roof, and a tall stacked chimney rising on the side. I was nervous, but I walked with Heather up the sidewalk, I was thinking about what I was going to say, trying to arrange my exact words in my head, but something was distracting me-- the hydrangeas.

They were perfect, like I had first thought when we drove up. But up close, there was something not quite right about them.

In school, we learn about the basics of thermodynamics. The first law is simple: energy cannot be created nor destroyed. Almost like saying we have to work with what we've got. But the second law is the one that really screws us.

Entropy. Over time, everything is working towards chaos. My science teacher used to tell it to us like this: if you left a wooden shed alone in the woods for one hundred years, it would begin to decay. The wood would rot and splinter, ivy would force itself between the planks, until eventually, all that is left is a pile of rubble. Without you ever laying a finger on it.

Everything in nature is constantly working towards its own destruction. No matter what.

And yet, these hydrangeas-- there wasn't a single imperfection among them. No browning ends to petals, no stems that refused to bloom. No bite marks from hungry caterpillars. And the smell, though subtle and pleasant on the breeze, was strange at this short distance. It was almost too strong, too concentrated. It smelled like flowers, but in the way a banana-flavored candy tastes like banana.

I walked over to one of the trees by the driveway. "What are you doing?" Heather asked, still halfway to the door. I reached out a hand, and touched the bark, before quickly pulling it back. I crouched down to the grass at my feet, and tugged on a few blades. They stayed put.

I walked back over to Heather. "What was that?" she half-laughed.

"I think you're right," I said a bit breathlessly. "I think there's something strange going on here." I motioned to the flowers in front of us. "They're all fake."

Heather scoffed at first, but then when I didn't return her smile, she leaned forwards, and felt for herself. They were high quality, to be sure, but there was no mistaking it. Nothing around here was alive. It was all synthetic, plastic or something similar.

"What the hell..." she said under her breath. Then, taking a few steps into the flower bed, she leaned a cluster of flowers towards me. "Look." Nestled in the blooms was a tiny bumblebee, the rump half-dusted with pollen. Slowly, Heather raised her hand, and gently rubbed her finger against the insect's wings.

Nothing. I didn't fly, it didn't even crawl.

"Amazing, isn't it?"

Heather straightened up quickly as we both turned to see a man standing behind us. Though he was in reality 50 years old, he looked much younger. His skin was gently tanned, and his build was athletic. His hair was combed to the side, not a stray hair out of place. He wore pants ironed to perfection, and a buttoned up shirt that was just as prim. He smiled at us. His teeth were so white they almost glowed, and his skin didn't crease around his wide blue eyes. So blue, I thought he might be wearing colored contacts.

"Sorry," I said quickly, reaching out my hand. "I'm Samuel Singer. This is Heather Dyer." I cleared my throat. This was always the part that chased people away. "We're with the Moonlight Gazette."

He kept smiling, but he only looked at my outstretched hand, "A member of the press?" He said, through clenched teeth.

"Hardly," Heather spoke up beside me, much to my relief. "We're from Habitsville, which is small enough, but we aren't even the biggest news outlet in town." She tried for an easy-going smile. "Besides, you know how print media is these day."

He kept smiling. "No, I don't."

Heather's expression faltered. "It's uh... not doing well."

"Oh," the man said, and his smile immediately dropped to a frown. His eyebrows, which had been slightly raised in excitement, instead furrowed inward. He looked like someone trying to make the expression that means sadness, without feeling any actual pity in reality. "I'm sorry."

"That's why we're here," I jumped in. "We were hoping we could talk to Tommy McAfee. We wanted to do a feature on him in our column of Moonlight."

As soon as I said this, the man's expression shifted, back to that same smile he had to begin with. Like someone had switched a flip. "You're in luck. I'm Tommy McAfee," he said brightly, and my heart sank. I was hoping he wasn't. "Let's go inside and talk."

Then, he turned on his heel, and began walking up the sidewalk, and towards the door. Heather and I exchanged the same uneasy glances, but neither of us turned back.

"Is it about the garden?"

"Excuse me?"

Tommy stopped waling and turned back around. "Your story. It's about my garden, correct? I saw you two admiring it. A completely perfect, pristine, artificial landscape. No allergies, no pests. Paradise." He gazed around at his flowers. "My parents made it. It's one of the few things I have left of them."

"It's lovely," Heather said politely.

"Thank you," he answered. "Now come inside, and we can talk about more about it. You can take a tour of the green house, too." He started to turn away, but my voice stopped him.

"Oh,"I started, unsure of how to proceed.. "It's really incredible, for sure. But that's not what we wanted to talk about." Tommy McAfee stopped, but kept smiling at us both. He didn't say anything.

"We wanted to talk about 1980," Heather said quickly, verbally ripping off the band-aid.

It was a strange thing to watch, Tommy McAfee's face. His plastered on smile fell, but only for a fraction of a second. His mouth flat-lined, his too-blue eyes blinked, and then he had regained his composure. "Huh," he said calmly. He looked at Heather more intently than before, and then turned towards me. We met eyes only for a moment, before I had to look away from his intense gaze.

"Good."

I hadn't expected him to say that. I also didn't expect him to turn once again and continue to walk towards the front door. But that was what he did. And Heather and I followed. Thinking that this meeting was going better than we had hoped.

In reality, it was going much, much worse.

I had told Heather that she had been right, that there was something strange going on at Tommy McAfee's house. But, she had been wrong, too. Heather said the worst thing that could happen would be that Tommy McAfee would kick us out of his house before we could get our story. But that wasn't true.

The worst thing that could happen is that Tommy McAfee wouldn't let us leave.

​

Have you ever made a decision, and almost in the very same moment, deeply regretted it? 

That's how I felt after I first stepped into the McAfee house. The same sickly-sweet smell of the synthetic hydrangeas drifted in with us, but that wasn't the only problem. Heather stiffened behind me, and I knew she felt it too. And the worst part was, the house itself was fine. It was painted a cool, crisp light blue. The white molding and wide windows made it feel airy and open, not the least claustrophobic. It was still sunny outside, and the beams streamed in and onto the wooden floor. No, the house wasn't inherently creepy on its own. 

Someone had made it that way.

"Let's sit in the parlor, shall we?" Tommy said, a casual hum to his voice as he led us. 

The parlor was where things became problematic. The furniture itself was, again, fine-- a gray sofa that appeared new, two cream armchairs that looked the same. There was a fireplace that was spotless, devoid of ash or wood. Above it, a strange oil painting, a still life I couldn't quite make out. On the opposite wall, a large framed mirror. 

But, the devil was in the details. 

I'm no interior decorator, by any means. But it looked like two drastically different styles were at war with one another in this room. The clean, plain, classic look of the furniture-- and, the, well, demented quality of the accessories. 

Every surface that could be covered with a doily, was. But not the thin, parched white lace of a family heirloom. There were messily concocted, most not in complete circles, some with huge gaping holes made into them. They hung off of the sides of the tables, a few nearly sweeping the floor. They were all different colors and materials, and the overall effect was... disconcerting.

Deep navy blue curtains hung, pressed, from either sides of the windows. They had been ironed, and had not a speck of lint on them. But, for whatever reason, it looked like someone had cut out large squares of the navy and sewn in jaggedly cut shapes of completely different fabrics. Some were checkered, some plaid, some striped-- and all were loud, bright colors. Lots of orange and purple. And each were messily sewn into place with thick, red yarn. 

I was trying not to stare around the room, especially because I was intensely aware of Heather opening ogling her surrounding from where she stood next to me. "You have a really nice house," I said gently.

"Oh, yeah, very nice," Heather said absentmindedly.

Tommy smiled brightly at us. "Please, sit," he said, and motioned to the sofa. He sat in one of the armchairs, and I could see they, too, had been given a similar patchwork job as the curtains. 

The sofa, on the other hand, had a large tear that went across nearly the entire length of the sitting portion, like someone had raked a knife across it. Then, it had been messily mended, haphazardly sewn back together with that same thick, red yarn. To say I was uneasy would be an understatement. 

But Heather sat, so I did too. 

Tommy stared at us for a moment, and we stared back. Then, just as I was about to break the silence, Tommy did it for me by abruptly getting to his feet. "Would anyone like some coffee?"

The sweet smell, plus my own nerves, was making my stomach turn. "No thank you," I said, but Heather perked up.

"I would love some, if it isn't too much trouble," she said politely. I tried to give her a nudge with my leg, a sort of I-don't-want-to-be-here-for-long nudge, but if she understood, she ignored it. "The ride here was sort of long, and I could use a pick-me-up."

I suppressed my frown. I had come to Rhodes' Creek from Habitsville, but I had picked up Heather only about 15 minutes from the McAfee house. She had been finishing up an interview for another story she had been working for, and had agreed to help me with my column because she would already be in the area. 

Tommy's smile, if possible, got wider. "No trouble at all, I was going to make myself a cup anyway." He walked towards the doorway. "Be right back," he said, before disappearing around the corner. It sounded vaguely like a threat. But I blamed that on my own uneasiness. 

"What are you doing?" I said to Heather in a hushed whisper. "Don't drag this out, this place is creepy. Let's just get the story and get out." There was urgency in my voice, but Heather didn't look like she was paying attention. Instead, she was staring at the fireplace. Then, wordlessly, she rose up and strode over to it.

"I wanted you to take a look at this." 

She motioned to the oil painting that hung on the wall. I looked back at the doorway, to make sure Tommy was still away. I had no idea how far away the kitchen was, but I somehow knew that letting him catch us examining his house any closer than we needed to would not be a good idea. I stood beside Heather, and looked at the painting. 

"What am I looking at?" I asked. The paint was put on thick, in smatterings in gray and blue and white. I had never been much of an art critic, either. 

"It's the parlor," Heather said, and as soon as she said it, I could see it. The sofa where we had been sitting, the arm chairs, the fireplace-- and even painted above it, the very painting we were looking at. The only difference-- everything was on the wrong side. The sofas were on the left instead of the right, the arm chairs the opposite. 

And another difference: there was something on the sofa.

It was undefined-- a smudge of lavender in the center, and lines that resembled arms and legs. I couldn't tell what it was, and yet, a shiver went down my spine.

I shook my head. "That's weird, you're right," I said. "Weird is good. Weird is why we're here."

Then, Heather moved back towards the sofa, and sat down, right in the center. "What are you doing?" I asked. "Leave some room for me."

She still wasn't listening, although this time, she was staring at the opposite wall, the one with the mirror. She looked for a second, then stood up quickly. She grabbed me by the shoulders, and shoved me into the exact spot where she had sat. 

I gave a grunt, but before I could protest, she pointed at the mirror. "Now look at the mirror." I did, and at first, I was confused. I saw myself, I saw the sofa, the chairs...

"Oh," I said, and Heather smiled. "Oh."

The painting, for whatever reason, was the exact view that a person sitting in the center of the sofa would have, if they were looking at the parlor through the mirror. 

"What does that--" I started, not entirely sure of where my question was headed, but I was cut off. Footsteps were approaching. 

But they weren't human. I tensed up at first, until I recognized the noise-- the soft, padded feet and swaying walk of a cat. 

And then it appeared, through the doorway. It was long and lean. It was a cream color, like the armchairs, and thick white fur around its chest. It's paws were bright white, like tiny gloves. I could see the white fluff extended down its stomach, making it look plumper than it probably really was. 

A sigh of relief went through me. I don't mind cats. This was fine. I moved over on the sofa, and Heather sat back down beside me, both of us intrigued by the visitor. 

Its eyes were a bit concerning. They were dark, probably brown, but they looked black and blended in with the pupil. It sat down, after walking a few steps into the room, and stared at us. Not in the distracted manner that an animal stares at another animal. It seemed strangely... intelligent. 

"Come here kitty cat," Heather cooed to it, snapping her fingers lightly as she leaned towards the cat. To my surprise, it came. It rubbed against her legs and gratefully accepted her hands on its fur. "Pet the cat Sam, it's sweet," she said teasingly, but I didn't. If I had felt queasy before, the oil painting had made me absolutely ill. I shook my head, but Heather insisted. Before I could stop her, she picked up the cat, and put it on my lap.

"No, I--" I started, instinctively holding the cat around the middle. As I did, I quickly jerked my hand away. The cat slid out of my lap, and trotted towards the door. It disappeared, and I turned to Heather. "I swear I just felt--"

Before I could finish, we heard footsteps, this time heavy and decidedly human. It was Tommy, with two cups of coffee on small plates in either hand. As always, he was smiling. Heather and I both smiled weakly back. 

"Now," he said brightly. "Where do we begin?"

Now that we were inside the house and Heather and Tommy had their coffee, I knew it was time for the interview. This was what I had come here for, and I knew I was potentially about to get answers to questions posed decades ago. But I wasn't thinking about any of that. 

I was completely certain I had felt a zipper on that cat's stomach.  

---

Credits

 

Three Days, Thirty Years Ago (Part One)

  

My name is Samuel Singer, and I think I've seen something I shouldn't have.

That's not exactly unusual-- as a reporter, I'm often actively seeking out events and situations that people have tried to keep buried. An element of secrecy, of forbidden knowledge, is precisely what makes a good story.

Usually.

But I've learned something, these past few days. I've learned that I'm not nearly as brave as I once thought that I was. I learned that there are darker corners of the world around me than I could have ever possibly imagined. And I learned that sometimes, even when confronted with such a dark corner, the last thing you should do is turn on a light.

Now, let me take you back to last Tuesday.

Firstly, it was raining, which was a problem. Though it’s all too common in Habitsville, I've learned to hate the rain. I find it too on-the-nose in horror films, and too cliché in romantic ones. In town, it would settle a smell of smog and cigarettes over the paved streets that couldn’t be escaped, not even by going inside. But last Tuesday, at least, I wasn’t in Habitsville.

I was driving with my coworker Heather to Rhodes’ Creek, a few towns over. Despite its closeness to Habitsville, I had never visited. Even when I was younger, I remember my parents taking the long way around when we needed to get across the state. I understood that. If I had kids, I probably wouldn’t want to bring them in the area either.

You see, Rhodes’ Creek has a bit of a reputation.

In 1980, three children went missing. Two boys and one girl, all around ten and eleven years old, vanished one night. It was summer, and the days were long, so parents figured they were out playing in the vacant streets, as children do. They surely just lost track of time. At least, that’s what the town thought.

Though the 80’s might have been a time of more relaxed curfews and comfortability with leaving doors unlocked, panic still ensued when children went missing. Especially if they’re gone for three days.

Three days. That was how long the children had been gone when the first arrest was made. Or, should I say arrests, plural. A couple, Henry and Rosemary McAfee, were brought in for questioning, then charged the very same day. It seemed that there were multiple eye witness accounts placing the missing trio around their home, and one watchful neighbor reported that they had seen the children enter the house, and never come out.

The arrests had shocked the town, and I could see why. The McAfee’s had seemed like normal, nice people, up until that point. They had moved there only a few years prior, had lived in a good part of town, and had a large, well-kept property, although they tended to keep to themselves. They were an attractive couple, and all of the photo’s I’d seen of them seemed to lack that cringe-worthy, out-of-date feeling to them. They didn’t have the big hair, overdone eyeshadow, or huge mustaches that were typical of the decade. They were clean-cut, good-looking—classic, is how I might describe them.

The appearance and good-standing of the couple wasn’t the only thing that sent a chill through the community. The third boy that had gone missing had been Tommy McAfee, Henry and Rosemary’s only child.

The rumors ran rampant throughout Rhode’s Creek. Some still thought the children had just gotten lost, but many had begun to think that the McAfee’s were really responsible. They had murdered the children and disposed of their bodies, even that of their own son. Some considered the possibility that they had used Tommy to lure the other two to them, and then killed all three.

Some still, thought that the children were still hidden within the house.

So a search warrant was procured, and the couple that had once been so private prepared to have their home rifled through by police, as the town murmured amongst themselves. But then, just before the search took place, something happened.

All three children came back.

They seemed tired, and perhaps a bit disoriented, but were otherwise unharmed. All three gave testimonies stating that they had merely gotten lost in an unfamiliar area in the nearby woods, and had trouble finding their way back. A wave of relief, and to some extent, disappointment, swept through the town as the children returned to their families. The McAfee’s were released, and regained their son.

Over the next few years, the other two children and their families moved away. Though I’ve made several attempts, I can’t seem to find current addresses or contact information for either of them.

Tommy McAfee, on the other hand, stayed.

Tommy came back into the public light a few weeks ago, when the local newspaper announced that his parents had both died in a car accident, leaving Tommy the sole inheritor of the property.

This was when I reached out to him.

He didn’t respond, not that I really thought he would. There hadn’t been peep out of him or his family since the events of 1980, and I doubted he wanted a reporter coming in and stirring things up. But it was nearing the anniversary of his own disappearance as a child, and so I figured it was now or never. I wanted to know what really happened, those three days in the summer of 1980.

I don’t believe that three children, who had lived in Rhodes Creek all of their albeit short lives, could suddenly get lost in their own hometown. There were woods in the area, but from my research, they aren’t thick. And that one witness was stuck in my mind, the one who claimed the children actually went into the McAfee home and didn’t come out. And neither Henry, nor Rosemary testified to seeing the three children that night, claiming that they hadn’t even seen their son since he had left for the park in the early afternoon.

And then there was the children’s testimonies themselves. Through methods I’d rather not divulge, I’ve been able to look at the actual transcripts from the original police report. Here’s what they said.

​

[Name Redacted] (The Girl):

​

We had been out playing. We stayed out later than we were meant to. Tommy said he knew a shortcut back into town through the woods, but we got lost part of the way through. We kept walking through the night. We drank water from the creek. One day we saw the road, and we walked home.

​

[Name Redacted] (The Boy):

​

We stayed out later than we were meant to. We had been out playing. Tommy said he knew a shortcut through the woods, back into town. We got lost part of the way through. We drank water from the creek. We kept walking through the night. One day we saw the road, and we walked home.

​

Tommy:

We had been out playing, and we stayed out later than we were meant to. I said I knew a shortcut through the woods, back into town. Part of the way through, we got lost. We drank water from the creek. We kept walking through the night. One day we saw the road, and we walked home.

​

Separate accounts, given by different people, and none being able to sit in on the testimony of the others. And yet, they are virtually identical in content, structure, and diction.

Something wasn’t right.

Heather had been interested, because she’s like me. She’s fascinated with mysterious happenings, even those that happened three decades ago. But she’s far more outgoing than I am, so it was her that proposed we drop in on Tommy McAfee, unannounced, on this rainy July day. And I, because I can’t shake this feeling that I haven’t gotten the full story, said yes.

Something else happened in those three days, something that has been buried for thirty years. And if there’s one thing I can’t escape, it’s my desire to dig.

You know the saying, "curiosity killed the cat"? Whenever someone recites that to me, I always like to answer with the rest of the phrase: “but satisfaction brought it back.” It helps me justify my need to stick my nose in places it doesn’t belong. That the end always justifies the means.

But this..

This was a mistake.

Heather and I pay Tommy McAfee an unexpected visit in Rhodes' Creek.

Next time. 

---

Credits