by A J Rivers
The first thing that stands out to me when I open an article about the disappearance of the first little girl sixteen years ago is the picture. Violet Montgomery was so tiny. Hearing that a child was only four years old when she died is a very different thing from actually seeing her face. Just hearing that she was so young is sad, but it's seeing the picture of her that truly makes it tragic.
When I look at her, I see everything she could have been. It isn't just about the whimsy and abstract idea of lost potential. The idea that maybe she would have been the first woman to serve as president, or a doctor who cured diseases, or an artist who revolutionized the way the world saw life was dramatic and underscored the loss more vividly.
But I see the concrete reality. It isn't just the sadness of wondering what she might have accomplished or who she might have been. It's seeing her and knowing that her being no longer exists. Suddenly what Xavier said to me about being the only one of me that will ever be on this earth holds a greater weight.
Now when I look at the little girl in that picture, I see everything she is. I see the tumble of her curls along the sides of her face. I see the bright, laughing eyes that should have been passed to another child one day. I see her hands and think of every person she would have touched, every hand she would have held, every time she would have pulled another person upward.
I've never heard her voice, but I think about that sound, and that no one will ever hear it again. Someone heard it for the last time and will always be the very last person to have heard her voice. No one else will ever hear it. There are countless words it will never form. Names it will never say. The moment that child left this life, the earth lost an entire sound.
It lost breath.
It lost energy.
It lost heat.
It lost thought waves.
It lost a piece of its identity as a wholly unique perspective and ability to perceive everything was snuffed out.
None of that can ever be regained.
Scrolling past the image gives me some relief, and I read through the article describing her disappearance. It was written before they found her body, but a large, bold-type update at the top gives the barest details of her death. It's written in the cautious, restrained language some newspapers use when reporting on a sensitive death. They didn't find her body, they recovered her remains. She wasn't abandoned in the woods, she was located a distance from the campground. It takes away some of the sharp edges, but it also takes away some of the humanity.
She deserves those sharp edges. She deserves for people to be horrified and sickened by what happened to her. Others don't deserve to be shielded when she went through whatever she went through. I don't know what that was. I don't know enough about the whole event to make a guess about what could have happened to end up with her tucked away in that cavern.
What I do know is it was horrific. Anything that would end with a four-year-old child decaying alone and unseen is horrific.
Reading that article leads me into a whirlpool of other articles, blogs, and forums talking about the incident and the campground itself. It carries me well into the night and just as I tumble to sleep, I absorb one last line.
Arrow Lake is cursed.
Chapter Ten
I am certainly not a person for whom the idea of a curse surrounding a particular location is foreign. In fact, people invoking curses and attributing any number of horrible things to otherworldly influences goes right along with much of my career and personal quests.
If I was a little younger, I might throw out there that it's ‘on-brand for me’. But since I'm in my thirties, I kind of wish I hadn't tried it.
The point is, when I wake up with the strange comment still on my mind, I'm less disturbed than I am intrigued. Before I can put a lot of thought into it, a heavy knock on the hotel room door jostles me.
“Ma'am? Housekeeping,” a voice says from the hallway.
I'm climbing out of bed and heading for my clothes, so I'm at least dressed when the housekeeper comes in, when my phone rings.
“Hold on,” I call out.
Grabbing my phone off the bedside table, I answer it before looking at the screen.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” Bellamy says. “You okay? I was expecting you a couple of hours ago.”
“I know,” I say. “I'm sorry. I managed to oversleep and now I have a very aggressive housekeeper pounding on my door, I missed check-out, and you know they've cleaned up the breakfast bar already.”
“I'm sorry,” she says. “I know how you love a hotel waffle.”
“It's different than making them at home,” I say. “Being able to flip the iron over makes it so much better.”
“But you're still coming?” she asks.
I hold my phone between my ear and shoulder as I get dressed.
“Yes,” I say. “I'm throwing on clothes and I will be on my way.”
I end the call and stuff my phone down in my pocket as I move around the room, gathering up the few things I have with me. The housekeeper is coming out of the room across the hall as I leave. She says good morning to me, but I can see her glare over the stack of towels she's holding.
The manager at the desk is understanding and gives me that wink people do when they think they're sharing some sort of secret with me, or that they're doing something only an insider would know to do. Sometimes it comes after I actually have asked somebody to bend a rule or give me a special consideration during an investigation. But in all honesty, most of the time I have no idea what we're supposed to be sharing.
At this moment, I think he's trying to tell me he knows who I am and assumes I'm knee-deep in some sort of complicated investigation that kept me up all night. I decide not to divulge I was just wandering down a rabbit hole, pre-gaming for this paranormal investigation I will apparently be watching.
I finally get on the road and give Sam a call. I told him yesterday that I made plans to stop by and see Bellamy on the way home, but I want to remind him. He's been working on a couple of cases of his own the last few weeks, and it’s been stressful for him.
I never want to lose sight of the challenges he faces. He's stood by my side as I traipsed right along the edge of losing my mind during any number of investigations. I'm committed to being by his side just in case he starts to slip as well.
When I get to Bellamy and Eric's house, she's already standing outside with her purse over her shoulder, waiting for me. My car has barely even stopped when she's across the yard and opening the passenger door.
“Everything okay?” I ask. “Are you running from something?”
“Running to something,” she corrects.
“Okay,” I raise an eyebrow. “What are we running to?”
“Breast pumps,” she says.
That is not what I was expecting. My hands still wrapped around the steering wheel, I stare at her for a few beats, waiting for her to elaborate. She just puts on her seatbelt and readies for the ride.
“That's it?” I ask.
“Breast pumps and accessories?” she offers. “I suddenly have the need for them. I know I'm going to be breastfeeding. But what happens if I get sick? What if I'm stuck in traffic somewhere? What if I get called into the Bureau to consult on an important case and lose track of time and Eric needs to be able to feed the baby? Or, what if I am a super-producer?”
“A what?” I ask.
“An extreme lactator?”
“Please don't ever say those words again,” I say.
“Emma, what I am doing right now and what I am about to do are miracles. I am currently growing another human being inside me, and in less than two months I will be sustaining that human being with nothing more than my own body. The milk I produce will be precious, and I can't waste a single drop," she says. Her voice gets a little higher and thinner with every word as emotion builds in it. She finishes and reaches for a tissue. "I also need a wipe warmer and Moses basket. And baby detergent."
"Are you nesting
?" I ask. "Is that what this is?"
She wipes her eyes and sniffles. "I think so."
"You okay now?"
"I still need a breast pump. They're on sale and other women are going to get all of them before we get there if you keep stalling," she says. "Go, go, go!"
I pull out of the driveway and toss her a look.
"Being pregnant is not for pansies, is it?" I ask.
"Sure as shit isn't."
I laugh. There she is.
We get to the baby store and as I pretty much expected, there is a distinct lack of swarms of pregnant women battling each other over suction cups and diaper bags. We're able to breeze right in and get everything Bellamy wanted, plus about thirty thousand other things she had no idea she needed until the second she saw them.
I have to admit, though, these itty-bitty socks are adorable. I have the compulsion to buy a few pairs to have around the house just because they're cute. I could find something to keep in them. I brought a pair inside with me when we stopped for lunch and I'm playing with them when Bellamy taps on the table to get my attention.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks.
“I was doing some reading last night and…” I stop myself, closing my eyes and shaking my head. “No. I'm not going to get into it. This is girl time and all about the baby. We don't need to talk about this stuff.”
“It's okay,” she says. “The baby's full of vanilla milkshake and sleeping right now. Go ahead.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “Because I don't have to talk about it. You can tell me all about all those unrecognizable things that we just bought and what they do and how they're going to make it easier for you to raise your child.”
“Seriously, I'm sure. Emma, the next, like, five years of my life are gonna be all baby, all the time. I’ll need to talk to adults too. Go ahead,” she says.
“Well, when you guys left to home go the other day, I had talked to Sam about the crimes that happened at that campground. I was curious about why the Ghostbust—I mean, paranormal investigation team, would even care about going up there. So, he told me about all the different disappearances and murders over the years. It was really a lot. Pretty unsettling. But, I wanted to know more about it.”
“Of course, you did. Because you can't resist stuff like this,” she says.
“Are we going to do that again?” I asked. “Are we going to have this conversation again when you tell me I look for murder in everything?”
“No,” she says, waving her hands in front of her as an invitation to continue.
“Alright. I started doing some research last night while I was at the hotel. I started reading about Violet Montgomery, the little girl who died sixteen years ago. That turned into my reading about various theories and about the other people who died. But the thing that's still sticking in my head is I went on a true crime forum where people discuss cold cases and things.”
“Like Lydia's web sleuthing?” Bellamy asks.
I shake my head. “Not exactly. These people aren't trying to make themselves look like experts or even solve anything. They're just talking about the crimes and what happened. Some of them offer theories, but they're not getting involved with anything. Anyway, I was reading a thread about the disappearance of the first two teenagers after Violet, and at the end of the comment section was a guy who just put 'Arrow Lake is cursed'."
"Cursed?" she asks.
"Yeah. Nothing else. No elaboration. No references. Nothing. Just that it was cursed, and that's it. Now, here's the thing, I am still not going to jump on the supernatural bandwagon. I am not going into watching this investigation with any expectation of seeing or hearing, or otherwise witnessing, anything that will change my mind or make me think anything different about it. I'm fully anticipating watching a group of grown men wander around jumping at the sound of owls and making their own shadows into spirits," I say.
"One of them is a girl," Bellamy says. "Elsie."
"Alright. OK, a group of grown men and a woman. The point is, I don't think I'm going to have any sort of earth-shattering personal experience. I am interested to see if there's anything else about the history of the area and the ‘curse’ this person was talking about," I say.
"So, you offhand dismiss the possibility that ghosts could exist, but you have no problem with the idea of curses, just because some rando on the internet said it?" Bellamy raises an eyebrow.
"Yes. But, before you start getting all slippery slope on me, hear me out. Curses are a construct. The idea of them was created to scare people. They become self-fulfilling prophecies. I am absolutely a believer in energy. And if bad things happen in a place, that energy can draw more bad things to it. Not to mention the basic disturbing human tendency to show reverence to evil and tragedy by perpetuating it. That's what a curse is. People continuing darkness. So, what kind of darkness are they talking about at that campground?”
“A four-year-old probably being murdered is pretty dark,” Bellamy points out.
I nod. “It is. Absolutely. But I don't think that's it. I just feel as if there's something more.”
“Like what?” she asks.
“I don't know.” I take a sip of my drink and pop a French fry into my mouth. “Maybe Slimer will show up and be able to tell us the whole story.”
“Okay, still not Ghostbusters. But keep looking for all the parallels,” she says.
I pick up another fry and swirl it through the concoction of mayonnaise, mustard, and barbecue sauce Sam got me addicted to over the last few months.
"Does your screaming at me about breast pumps count as the librarian scene?"
Chapter Eleven
“Are you ready? It's going to start in just a minute,” Sam says.
“I'm just grabbing a few extra snacks,” I say.
“What else could we possibly need?” Sam asks. “The investigation's only supposed to be a couple of hours.”
I carry the bowls of snacks into the living room and set them on the table.
“But I thought this was supposed to whisk me away on some grand adventure into the Twilight Zone,” I teased. “Maybe I'll get hungry along the way.”
“Not the Twilight Zone,” Xavier says. “That's something completely different.”
"Thank you, Xavier," I say. "Are you comfortable?"
"Maybe prop me up a little," he says.
I grab the pillow from the end of the couch and stuff it behind my laptop screen. I have the computer sitting on a couple of books on the cushion beside me to get it high enough to see.
"Better?" I ask.
"Much. I can see the screen now."
"OK, good. Here, I have your favorite blanket," I say, wrapping the afghan around the base of the computer and tugging it up the sides just enough for him to be able to see them at the edges of his screen.
"I wish you guys could have come to Sherwood to watch with us," I say.
"Sorry," Dean says from somewhere behind the computer where I can't see him. "This case is taking up more time than I expected it to."
"It's okay. I understand. Where are you?"
Xavier holds up his phone where he has Dean on a video call.
“Hurry up,” Sam says. “They're starting.”
“I’m not going to be able to be around for the whole thing,” Dean says. “I have to meet with that guy who called me earlier.”
“The boyfriend of the polygamist who is suspected of killing one of her husbands?” I ask.
“I think that might be the sentence of the day,” Sam says.
“Polyandrist,” Xavier says. “If it’s a woman with multiple male partners, it’s not polygamy. It’s polyandry. Now, if the woman also has wives, then it is polygamy, and I stand corrected.”
“The show is starting,” Sam says flatly after a few seconds of silence.
“He’s supposed to have some information for me but is only willing to meet tonight because he says she thinks he’s at work,” Dean says.
“That’s okay.
You do what you’ve got to do. I’m sure you’ll get filled in on all the details.” I pick up the bowl of popcorn. "Bellamy and Eric are at home, too. They are watching and are going to text throughout the show. I do have to say, I kind of feel as if I'm being denied the whole watch party experience. Y'all are the ones who wanted to do this and now we're all scattered around."
"It's okay," Xavier says. "We're using technology just like they're going to. Only we're detecting each other, which is a whole lot easier than detecting ghosts. And a computer is much easier to use than an Ovilus."
My eyes slide to the phone in Xavier’s hand again, and I see a resigned stare.
"Xavier, what did you do?" I ask.
His face lights up and the other hand pops up from beside him, revealing a strange-looking device. He looks like a little boy with his action figure ready to watch his favorite movie.
"Shhhh," Sam says, totally transfixed on the TV. "You're missing the beginning."
"Popcorn?" I ask, holding the bowl in front of the computer screen.
Xavier reaches past the screen as though he's reaching into the bowl and comes back with a handful of popcorn.
"Thank you. I'm glad you remembered."
"Of course."
"Emma!" Sam hisses.
"Sorry," I whisper. "I'm watching."
I curl up with the popcorn in my lap and watch Ken and a woman I assume is Elsie walk in slow motion away from a truck. Three guys behind them have heavy cameras and other devices, and they all carry the same bleak, serious expression.
The voiceover in the background is deep and heavy. I can already tell this is going to be a long couple of hours.
Chapter Twelve
The Investigation
Thirteen years ago, four young men walked into Sherando Ridge National Park in Virginia. Jason Zapinski, his cousin Gregory Zapinski, and their friends Ben Perkins and Julian Garrett told family and friends they were planning to hike and camp for the week. They were familiar with the area and no one was concerned. However, a few days after entering the park, all communication with the group stopped. They weren't answering their phones or posting on social media. This was unusual, particularly for Jason, who was the youngest of the group and known to record his daily movements with photographs. It was one of those photographs that revealed their fate.
