Mr. Fullerton was slowly nodding, stone-faced, his lawyerly instincts having kicked in. But most of the others were looking down, as if ashamed they’d made me recount this awful tale. No one said anything, so I felt like I needed to keep on talking.

  “They let my dad take me, Andrea, and her mom back home, asked us to come back the next day for more questions. And we did. We were there for three or four hours, pretty much repeating the same junk over and over again. But… I mean, there just wasn’t much. It was definitely Mr. Gaskins, and he’d definitely lopped off Mr. George’s head. That about sums it up.” I no longer wanted to vomit, I just felt stupid at that point. Like I’d disappointed everyone by not having more information. “I swear I don’t really know anything else.”

  “Two others have gone missing,” Mr. Fullerton announced, though everyone already knew this. “Gloria Perez from the bakery and old Tink from the motel. Anyone seen hide or tail of those folks? Heard anything?”

  Heads shook around the fire. No one.

  Mr. Fullerton nodded like someone trying to accept a cancer diagnosis. “Looks to me like Pee Wee’s killed at least three, then. Probably got their heads racked up like trophies.”

  “Okay,” my dad said loudly, stepping up to me and taking my arm. “Time for anyone under 21 to go beddy-bye. Come on, now.” He tried to hide it but I saw him shoot a dirty look at his looming lawyer friend. “Ain’t no harm coming to folks in this Fox Pen, I can promise you that.”

  A few minutes later I was lying down in a top bunk, staring at the ceiling, blankets pulled up to my chin, only able to think of one thing. My mom wasn’t in the Fox Pen. Sure, she had a shotgun, doors locked up, and was as tough as any person I’d ever met. But still.

  In times like this, how could we have left her alone?

  5

  I’m not sure what woke me up later that night, deep in the witching hours. Alejandro had waddled in sometime after I had and was zonked out on the bunk beneath me; maybe he’d snorted in his sleep, something he was prone to do. Maybe there’d been an especially loud roar of laughter from the still-drinking adults outside. Dogs constantly barked everywhere, had almost become background music you didn’t hear, but maybe one got extra close, yelped extra loud. Hell, maybe I’d grown a sixth sense.

  All I know is that when my eyes fluttered open, there was a man in my room.

  My entire body chilled, despite my heart thudding against my rib cage.

  Nothing more than a shadow, a silhouette, the dark figure stood in the far corner, stock still, and if the wall behind him hadn’t been painted white, I might never have noticed him. I hadn’t moved much upon waking—nothing more than a shift to my side—and the darkness may very well have hid the fact that I was no longer slumbering. Whatever the case, the man didn’t move. He stayed perfectly still, standing in place, like a demon sentry waiting for the devil himself to return. The outline of his shadow revealed no details, and I can honestly tell you that the sight of him scared me 10 times more than when I spotted a bloody Pee Wee Gaskins sawing a man’s head off in the woods.

  Squinting to hide the whites of my eyes, their lids almost completely closed, I calmed my breath even though it wanted no part of calmness. Heart and lungs churning like a powered-up engine, I breathed through my mouth and nose at the same time to alleviate the pressure, lessen the noise of rushing air. And with slitted eyes, I stared at our visitor.

  It was definitely a man, and any chance it might be something so absurd as a statue or cardboard cutout had quickly been eliminated—the shadow moved, ever so slightly. The shadow breathed, ever so shallow. Just enough to remove any doubt. He wasn’t tall, wasn’t large—nothing like the monster my mind wanted to turn him into—he looked as normal as one can standing in a dark room for no apparent reason. Bald or close to it, a little stooped at the shoulders. He began to sway just a little, the line of his silhouette shifting to the left and then to the right, no more than an inch or two but steadily, left then right, left then right, left then right. I saw nothing of his face, but my every sense told me he was staring back at me. Waiting. Waiting for what?

  The man took a step forward, the floorboard creaking beneath him.

  It took every ounce of will hidden in my bones to prevent myself from screaming. He took another step then stopped, standing at attention once again, although four feet closer than he had been. I squeezed my eyes closed like a child, hoping this boogeyman would disappear when I opened them again. Winking hard with one and barely cracking the other, I saw that my foolish wish had not come true. My thoughts raced, my mind desperately trying to find an explanation for this visitor.

  Any reasonable person would’ve already jumped to the logical conclusion of who stood in my room in a cabin in the middle of nowhere. But my mind was far from rational, still lost somewhere between the real world and the one of nightmares. It seemed far-fetched that somehow Pee Wee Gaskins had appeared at my bedside, one of two kids who’d witnessed his heinous murder. How could he have gotten past the dogs, the hunters, the old men outside? My dad had to have let him in. Surely this was someone he’d sent up to watch over me, worried about my well-being after all I’d been through. I tried to match the size and shape of the shadow with any one of my dad’s friends…

  The man took another step forward.

  My heart no longer raced. I swear it stopped, dead in its tracks, for an interminable moment. No air would come in or out—I choked on a fear I’d not thought possible until that moment. The man was now only an arm’s length away, facing me, his dark-hidden face about even with the top bunk. Level with my slitted eyes. I heard his own breaths now, shockingly even and calm, like the gentle breathing of a lion at rest, one paw draped over its slaughtered prey. And as I listened to the air whistle in and out of his lungs, two things became murderously apparent to me.

  One, I finally accepted—knew without the slightest of doubts—that Pee Wee Gaskins was the man in my room. It was like my mind had tried to deny it, block it out as a possibility. But the image of his bloody self in the woods matched perfectly with the outline of the person standing right before my eyes.

  Also, I couldn’t possibly fool myself for one more second—Pee Wee knew full well that I was awake and staring back at him. Frozen by terror, literally unable to move, I surprised myself by speaking with a whimper of a voice.

  “They know you’re here.”

  If my words threw him off guard, he showed no sign of it. The shadow didn’t move, the breathing continued on as steady as ever.

  “It’s a trap,” I added. “They’re coming.”

  Looking back on those frightening moments, I’m touched by the bravery of my words, though at the time they seemed reckless. But they had no effect on Pee Wee. For at least a minute—each and every second drawing out like a wave that slowly washes into shore from the horizon—he neither moved nor spoke. An entire lifetime seemed to pass, my mind urging my body to get up and run. To kick him and flee, scream for help. I did nothing.

  Finally, this horrid man, this demon made flesh, spoke to me.

  “I’m gonna tell them it was you.”

  His words threw me. I didn’t know what I’d been expecting—perhaps for him to say, “I’ve come to take you away, away, I’ve come to take you away.” Or maybe an “I’ll tear your sooooooul a-paht.” But not this. Not, “I’m gonna tell them it was you.”

  Quietly, I replied, “What do you mean?”

  Pee Wee came half a step closer, the floor creaking like a haunted house. He leaned forward. If he’d have sneezed I’d have felt its wetness, caught his disease.

  “I’m going to tell them I came for you,” he said in a fierce whisper, “and that you begged me to kill your friend instead.”

  I trembled from head to toe, an actual wave of movement traveling through my body. My ability to speak from just moments earlier vanished completely. Shuddering, I backed away, scooting all the way to where the bunk bed met the wall, and pulled the blanket to my chest as if that would protect me. I couldn’t so much as whisper a plea for mercy.

  “What’s his name?” Pee Wee asked, voice so soft, motioning to Alejandro, who snored softly below me.

  I only shook my head in response, chest hurting from the lack of breath.

  “Tell me his name,” Pee Wee said. “Tell me his name or I’ll kill you both.”

  I shook my head again.

  “Now.” Though still whispering, the command was as close to an animal growl as I’d ever heard from a human.

  A perfect fear made me tell him.

  “Alejandro.”

  “Alejandro,” Pee Wee repeated, almost tasting the name with his lips. “Now, go.” He took a step back and gave his head a swift jerk in the direction of the door.

  Instead of obeying or responding directly, I whimpered, “Please don’t hurt him.”

  He once again surprised me with his next words.

  “You saw me in the woods. You and the girl. Don’t tell me you didn’t.”

  I shook my head then nodded, not sure which answer he wanted.

  “Can’t kill you, now, can I?” he said. “You already done told them everything. There’s another reason, too, much more important. But they’ll never find me, boy. They can’t even see me. No one sees me unless I want them to. Keep sayin’ what ya want, tell the po-lice what ya want. But no one’s ever gonna forgive you for beggin’ me to kill…” He pointed at the lower bunk. “For beggin’ me to kill Alejandro, here. Now go on, boy. Make me say it again and my knife’ll cut a pretty smile on your face. A red smile that ain’t never gonna frown.”

  My vision had been adjusting to the darkness upon waking. That, or he’d stepped into a pool of bare light from the window. But I could see him better, now. Could see the pockmarks on his face, see the gleam of hate, of something wrong, in his eyes. I’ve told you how short he was, but in that moment he seemed taller than the ceiling, as impossible as that sounds. A giant monster that wanted to eat me, straight from the storybooks.

  He pulled in a breath to speak again but I hurried and swung my legs over the edge of the top bunk. That quieted him. I turned over and slid on my stomach until my feet hit the floor. Having my back to him sent a fresh wave of terror across my skin, goosebumps rising. Then I faced him again. Not out of bravery. It was completely, utterly, an act of cowardice.

  “That’s it, boy,” Pee Wee said. “Get out and don’t come back for a half hour. Tell anyone and I’ll kill your mama by sunrise.”

  I like to think I hesitated. That I showed the briefest moment of rebellion. But before Pee Wee could’ve possibly said or done anything, I turned and ran out of the room. Behind me, I heard a quick shuffling of feet, a muffled groan, a wet thunk of a noise that replays in my mind when it’s dark and silent and I’m all alone, to this very day.

  With a shame so deep I can barely type the words, I tell you that I didn’t go back or talk to anyone at the camp until I knew Pee Wee had had enough time to kill Alejandro.

  Enough time to cut off his head.

  Chapter Seven

  July 2017

  1

  If I were a poet, I’d say that mine has been a life of darkness, storm clouds above and sharp rocks beneath. My hair is cold and soaking wet, my feet bloodied. (Speaking metaphorically, of course, though I’ve felt those things in a literal sense from time to time.) But I’ve never stopped walking, really. There’s always been a spark of hope shining through those clouds and smoothing out those rocks, just enough to endure. When I was young, I had my parents and siblings and friends. And when I grew up, I had my kids and Andrea to lean on in the dark, dark days after my wife died.

  Always, there was hope. Always, light on the horizon, no matter how dim.

  Until my son disappeared in the middle of the night.

  Since I’d made that frantic, high-pitched, insanity-laced call to the police, my world sank into an abyss of such black despair I hardly know how to describe it. There were a lot of phone calls, shared descriptions and stories to the press and the police, search parties of family and friends and complete strangers. A lot of tears. But all of that was done in a haze of such sadness and fear that I was barely aware of my surroundings.

  Life was no longer linear, but a loop of terrifying anticipation. Like those interminable moments rattling up the first incline of a roller coaster, infinitely waiting for the raised horizon, the plunge into unknown depths. Yet we never reached the top, even as I simultaneously wanted to and didn’t want to.

  Each and every second stretched out to infinity, a constant dread of potential bad news hanging over our heads, making me wish my life could freeze before someone told me the thing that might shatter me once and for all. This, mixed with the urgency of finding him as soon as possible, created a confusing relationship with time that made me inconsolable and relentlessly restless. I had not slept—had barely so much as sat down.

  We searched. That’s what we did. My parents, Aunt Evelyn, Uncle Jeff, their kids, an army of locals. We searched.

  Time lost all meaning. Things like the rising and the setting of the sun ceased to exist in my sphere of understanding, the darkness of my days no different from the lightless nights. There was no such thing as seconds, minutes, or hours. Only a swampy morass of right now, a universe that had ground to a halt, stuck in a quagmire of fear and anxiety. Not one thing from the past, present, or future mattered anymore, not until we found my son.

  I didn’t know what to do with my other kids. I couldn’t lie to them, set up false hopes. Against my parents’ urging, I just told them everything, kept them near, let them hear all my conversations, made them work tirelessly in the search parties. I think it kept both them and me on the barest side of sanity. I know for sure it stole a piece of their innocence that they’d never get back—even little Logan. But it seemed the only choice.

  On the third day after Wesley had gone missing, I walked through a cornfield over by the Frierson place, the stalks green as limericks and barely brushing my shoulders. The sun was pushing its way up the sky, the heat on my neck finally reminding me that the giant ball of fire even existed, 90 million miles away. I didn’t care for it, wished that it would supernova or whatever the hell those celestial bodies do when they die and take us all with it in a blast of flame and glory. That had been one of my more cheerful thoughts of the morning.

  Hazel was in the row next to me, craning her neck to look around each and every stalk that passed by, as if Wesley just might actually be hiding behind one. She did it with an earnestness that came close to breaking what was left of my heart. That girl loved her brother, missed him terribly, and I know that her young mind processed what had happened in a very different way from mine. I didn’t understand it and refused to pretend that I did, but something told me that she fully expected Wesley to pop up and say, “Boo!” at any time. That she held onto a hope I could only wish for.

  I wanted to say something to her, even opened my mouth. But every word to my kids had been a chore the last two days, a lifeless attempt at displaying what I didn’t feel inside. Tears welling in my eyes, I quickly leaned through the stalks and patted her head, attempted an encouraging smile. It was all I could do. We kept walking. Shouts of “Wesley! Wesley! Wesley!” filled the air, had become our constant soundtrack. My own throat was hoarse from it, and nothing came out today.

  “Daddy?” Hazel asked.

  I looked over at her, comforted just a little by her voice, glad she spoke when I couldn’t. “Yeah, sweetie?”

  “Well,” she replied, falling into her usual contemplative stare. “I was going to ask if you’re okay but I know you’re not okay, so it’d be dumb to ask.”

  “I’m trying, sweetheart. And I will be okay as long as I have you next to me.” You may think I didn’t quite mean it, but I did. I needed that little girl like I needed blood in my veins. And after two days of hopelessness I was starting to realize that more than ever. I felt a surge of unbearable love and suddenly wept like a child.

  “Daddy!” she exclaimed, and jumped over to my row and put out her arms for a hug. I dropped to my knees and pulled her in close, squeezed her so hard I just might’ve rearranged her ribs. But she didn’t complain, only tried to match my strength. The sun was directly above us now, meaning our shadows had mostly disappeared, just for a moment.

  “We’re going to find him,” she said, once again speaking well beyond her years. “We’re going to find him and he’ll be safe and sound. You’ll see. He probably just got lost is all.”

  Unable to speak, I nodded through my tears and held on tight.

  2

  We didn’t find anything in that cornfield, or in the woods that bordered it, or in the swamp that bordered the woods. Calls came in from the other search parties, some lead by Jeff and Evelyn, some lead by old friends, some lead by police deputies. But they all had the same thing to say.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  No one could find my boy.

  3

  I have no recollection of time passing that third day. There was a morning, an afternoon, and an evening, but they could’ve switched order and I wouldn’t have noticed or cared or thought it particularly unusual. Sometimes the sun was on one side of the sky and sometimes on the other. I do remember the point it shone straight from above. Other than that, it came as a complete shock when my mom stepped up to me and said, “It’s time for supper.”

  We stood at the edge of a soybean field, having just finished scouring a copse of trees on the other side of the road. It had been a swampy, thickly vegetated spot of land, and I was filthy and soaked from sweat and swamp water.

  “I guess it is almost dark,” I muttered.

  My mom nodded, seemingly encouraged that I had at least responded with words. Most of the day I’d just ignored everyone. “We’re too far from home for me to make us a good meal. Let’s head on over to the Compass and have a nice sit-down.”