#dkstart

“Do you... did you guys find anything?” He asked, already knowing the answer. He didn’t know what else to say though. What was he supposed to say to someone who had just spent hours out in the woods looking for his brother’s dead body?

Harsh October air whipped at Ken’s face, the biting cold causing him to yank up the sweater Aisha had bought him last Christmas. It was an itchy, beast of a thing, an awful shade of yellow, but just wearing it made Ken feel safer somehow. It made him feel like Aisha was watching over him, and Lord knows he needed all the help he could get today.

The man had been up since dawn, organizing groups and setting the search parameters. Even though the search wasn’t officially beginning until 2pm, Ken had been hard at work doing everything he could to give them the best chances. The alternative was too terrible to entertain. This wasn’t the same. Brian wasn’t Pete. Max was in prison, and Philip was long gone. This was a terrible incident, but it wasn’t the same.

It couldn’t be.

A strong gust of wind had the burly man shrugging further into his coat as he looked out at his community. Forlorn faces, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. This wasn’t how any of them wanted to spend a Saturday. It wasn’t how any of them wanted to spend any day, out in the woods, searching for a lost boy among the ghostly whispers of a Devil returning to finish what he started all those years ago. Ken could tell the ghosts of the past were tapping on everyone’s shoulders, even those who were too young to really know the intricacies of what happened all those years ago. 

Taking a moment away from expectant faces, Ken turned towards the hot coffee station Aisha had help set up. He pulled out his thermos, worn from so many family camping trips, events full of so much more laughter and happiness than today. He’d been so scattered lately, he hadn’t even seen the person waiting patiently to fill up on caffeine and warmth. 

“Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to jump ahead of ya,” Ken muttered, sidestepping his neighbor, gesturing for them to go ahead and fill up. 

The forest.

Mandy could count on one hand how many times she had gone near the forest in the past decade, and driving past counted. In the brisk October chill the woodland seemed to loom, as if the trees were some distant Middle Earth variety. A gust of wind made her frown and pull the hand-knitted muffler over her lower mouth. Did Brian like Tolkien? Maybe it was too outdated for kids these days; she wouldn’t know. Her only contact with kids was Pete, and he’d throw her a withering look if she even tried saying something along those lines. He was eighteen now. It was hard to believe. The very thought made her chest ache, first for Pete, then for Brian. Eight years old. Dear God.

Residual anger flushed through her, and she had to close her eyes tightly for a moment to calm herself. After exhaling slowly, she tucked some hair behind one ear and surveyed the gathering crowd. Most of Devil’s Knot had turned out for the event, looking alternately hopeful or pinched with cold, clutching torches or thermoses, talking avidly to one another. Sheriff Malvo was supposed to set them all off, as if they were a Sunday walking club, but Mandy was inclined to simply start alone. Small talk felt insurmountable, suddenly, and it crested upon a swell of helplessness that made her want to cry. 

Pull it together. The voice sounded awfully like Sandy, and for a moment Mandy caught a glimpse of a blonde head as the crowd parted. It wouldn’t surprise her if Sandy turned up; if there was one thing that made Sandy reliable, it was her unerring obsession with other people’s business.

Thinking about Sandy always made her feel composed in comparison. Adjusting her muffler one last time, Mandy put her hands in the pockets of her over-sized parka and started weaving through the crowd. People parted for her, but not without some glances of pity. Keeping her eyes straight ahead, Mandy walked up to a person standing on the fringe of a group. Small talk might suck, but it was necessary. Today wasn’t about her, after all.

“Hey.” Mandy’s voice was whipped away by the wind; she extricated one gloved hand and gently waved it to get their attention. “Hi. Um. Are you walking with anyone?”

TIME: 5:45 pm

OPEN TO: anyone.

The sun was disappearing and the daylight was fading, but the efforts of the search were still going strong. They’d go until there was no daylight left to protect them from the unwavering cold and one could only hope for a final Hail Mary of a miracle. It was human nature to wonder the obvious; to wonder if Brian was even in the woods or if whoever had taken him had thought better of it. After all, anyone who knew of the tragic ‘84 murder would know better than to fall back to the scene. Then again, what the hell did she know?

The cold was making itself comfortable within her stiffening body, but she refused to leave. She couldn’t walk away out of weakness, no, she’d faced worse than this in Vietnam. If she could survive that war, she could survive this. “Son of a bitch,” she mouthed, a cool, unexpected breeze rocking her to the core. No one would want to give up the search, but the odds were quickly stacking against them. They couldn’t search safely after dark and if they stayed out too long, they’d be useless in the days to come.

OPEN / Cheeks were bitten red by autumn wind, and feet were aching from walking across uneven ground. The campground feels like territory she’s walked ten times over, and so does every other inch they were supposed to be canvassing. Part of her wants to go rogue – certainly if she walks with authority and badge gleaming on her chest, no one would stop her — but sensitivity stops her. She can’t imagine complaining to someone about why they can’t traipse on in there, because she knows, and the trauma isn’t hers to trivialize. There’s a scar over Devil’s Knot, and no matter how often she looks at it and attempts to tend to it ... she’s too small, and it’s too big and runs too deep. It isn’t her cross to bear, no matter how deeply it affected her before she even step foot in town. 

She’s gazing at the treeline again, the mouth of the forest open wide and menacing, like it wants to gobble her whole. AND YET — as she has been almost all day the patches of forest she sees draw her closer, because it’s fucking useless what they’re doing. But still — she’s been here since the morning, like she had been for every other search, helping set up spots for coffee and doling out first aid kits in case of minor injury. Thank you for coming out. More useful than the phone calls, at least, were people showing an effort that wasn’t fear mongering. And still, even with traits of logical reason, she gets being scared. Lighting rarely ever strikes twice, and who’s to say the rules don’t apply to tragedy? 

Last Saturday afternoon Brian Goode was kidnapped. No one knows who did it, or why. All that was seen was a white car indicating left at the end of the Goode’s street. It pulled out onto the highway and slipped from view. Devil’s Knot has been plastered with flyers (Brian’s school photograph, blonde haired and smiling blandly, the word MISSING! printed in large block letters). The police station has fielded countless phone calls from well-meaning but misguided residents. Brian was seen in the town square, at the playground, walking down the road. Someone even said a group of bikers had come through and snatched him away. But beneath the fevered gossip there is a rumor that is far worse, one that makes people lock their doors and draw the blinds tight. It’s the Devil. He’s come back to us. He’s come back to finish what He’d started in 1984.

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