by J K Franko
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
CHAPTER FORTY THREE
CHAPTER FORTY FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY SIX
CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY TWO
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
1974
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Published in the United Kingdom and the rest of the world by Talion Publishing Cambridge, UK
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN - 978-1-9993188-0-2
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A
© J.K. Franko 2019
The right of J.K. Franko to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Any trademarks, trade names, product names cited in this book are the property of their respective owners.
This book is dedicated to my wife, Raquel. Thank you for being an amazing partner, a loving mother, and an inspiration to me every day. You’re my best friend.
What would YOU do?
Thus shall you punish wrongdoers.
So that all who hear of your actions shall tremble and cease to do evil.
You must show no pity: Life shall pay for life, eye for eye,
tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot.
DEUTERONOMY 19: 19-21
PROLOGUE
When I try to piece together how this whole mess began, a part of me thinks it may have started over thirty years ago. At least the seeds were planted that far back, in the early 1980s. What happened then, at that summer camp in Texas, set the stage for everything that was to come.
Odd, how something so remote in time and geography continues to impact me here, today.
Sometimes I try to imagine her, how she felt—that eleven-year-old girl—as she ran, stumbling and tripping through the woods that night. I try to put myself in her shoes. When I do, I wonder if she was frightened.
Did she understand the consequences of what she’d gotten herself into? I imagine it felt otherworldly to her, like a dream. But not a good dream. No, one of the bad ones—the ones that make your heart machine-gun as you try to outrun some dark thing that’s chasing you. But the faster you try to run, the slower you go, your legs feeling leaden, clumsy, useless. Panic sets in. Tears of frustration form. Fear takes hold and won’t let go. You open your mouth to scream but realize, to your horror, that you’re paralyzed. It’s not that you can’t scream; you can’t even breathe. Not a dream—a nightmare.
Then again, all that may simply be my imagination. It could just be me projecting what I might have felt onto Joan.
Maybe she wasn’t scared at all.
True, it was dark out. The night smelled of rain, but there was no lightning, only the far-off rumble of thunder hinting at a distant storm. There were no trail lights, no visibility but for the moon peeking out intermittently from behind a patchwork of clouds. But, Joan had been down this trail before. She was running toward the main cabin.
She had been at Camp Willow for almost two full weeks. She had been up and down that trail at least ten times a day, every day. Of course, that was during the day, and always with her buddy, or a camp counselor (the children called them troop leaders).
Joan had never been on the trail at night. And never alone.
Maybe I imagine Joan was scared because, as an adult, I believe that she should have been. I would have been terrified.
Adults know that evil flourishes in the dark.
The woods aren’t a safe place for a little girl to be alone during the day. But at night?
Any experienced hiker will tell you that the forest changes at night. Landmarks look different. Depth perception suffers, even in young eyes.
By day, a copse of crape myrtles to the side of a trail is obvious. The bright fuchsia flowers stand in stark contrast to the greys, browns, and greens of the surrounding trees and foliage.
Turning right at the crape myrtles leads you back to the main camp. If you miss the turn, the trail continues to wind down until it reaches the scenic overlook that drops fifty feet to the river and jagged rocks below.
By day, those fuchsia flowers would be impossible to miss. But at night that landmark would simply blend into the background.
You see, there are no pretty pink flowers in the woods at night.
By now, you’re probably wondering what Joan was doing out alone in the middle of the night. What could make her leave the safety of her cabin without her buddy? And why was she running?
To answer that, I have to tell you a little bit about her first.
Joan was a cute, bright little girl. Those who didn’t know her well might mistake her curious nature for precociousness. But she wasn’t. In fact, she was respectful and responsible, as older sisters tend to be.
She was also one of those children who aren’t afraid to speak their mind. That is how her parents had raised her. She came from one of those kinds of families where the parents speak to their children as though they are adults. And the kids do the same. No pussyfooting around.
Joan was clear about what she believed, too. She didn’t scare easily.
She didn’t start out scared that night. She started out curious. Sneaking around after lights-out. Snooping. She called it “spying.”
It’s natural in young children, this behavior. Visceral. Primordial. If you have children, you know what I’m t
alking about. Evolution has hardwired something into kids that says: We must learn how to spy on others. How to gather “secret” information. How to stalk. We must learn to be predator, or we will become prey.
It’s a part of growing up. It’s all fun and games.
But there is a stark line that divides games from reality.
Joan crossed that line as she approached the cabin she planned to spy on.
She knew these kids. She’d been watching them for the last couple of days, eavesdropping at lunch, that kind of thing. She’d overheard them talking, but she couldn’t believe what they were planning was true.
If it was, she had to do something.
You see, Joan was raised with clearly defined notions of right and wrong. She went to Bible study. And Grandma had read to her, when Mom and Dad weren’t around, from the Old Testament. About Satan and Original Sin. Grandma had taught her that there were certain things that were mystical, sacred, and dangerous. You just didn’t play around with them.
Joan crept up quietly, purposefully between pools of light. Once she reached the cabin, she paused. She could hear voices. Even though it was well past lights out, there was definitely something going on in there.
Carefully, she raised herself just enough to see inside the screened window, then quickly lowered herself. She’d seen them—she wasn’t sure if they could see her, if they were looking in her direction or not.
She listened closely, trying to make out what they were doing. But the only thing she could hear was the hammering of her heart against her ribcage, the ringing of the blood in her ears. She placed her hands over her mouth to silence the breath that was coming so quick and shallow that she was starting to feel giddy.
She slowly peeked in the window again, and saw that no one was looking in her direction. Her eyes had already adjusted to the dark. Even so, it took a few moments for her brain to register what was going on, and a few more seconds to actually understand what she was seeing.
Joan’s mouth fell open. She couldn’t believe what was happening, what they were doing. She gaped, involuntarily holding her breath, staring.
There were rules at Camp Willow. What campers could and couldn’t do.
What Joan witnessed went way beyond breaking camp rules. She was shocked. Stunned. And she was angry. This wasn’t just wrong. It was evil.
You’d go to hell for it.
She had to make it stop.
“I’m gonna tell!”
For one brief moment, everything froze. The woods went quiet.
The three words hung in the air.
A screech broke the silence, followed by the flapping of wings as a frightened creature of some sort flew from its roost. At the same moment, the kids in the cabin turned in unison and gawked at the source of the scream.
Joan looked at them. She knew them. As she looked from one to the other, and they stared at her, Joan realized that she was outnumbered.
She turned and fled as fast as her feet would carry her. As she did, she heard a girl’s voice hiss in a loud whisper, “Joan, wait!”
Joan ignored her and ran away, toward the main cabin. She felt strong, energized, full of purpose. But as I told you before, the trail was dark. The moonlight came and went. A storm was brewing in the distance. There were strange noises all around her. Shadows formed menacing shapes along the path.
And Joan was alone.
They say that when accidents happen it is usually not any one thing that goes wrong, but rather, it is the cumulative effect of multiple failure modes. For little Joan, the adrenaline, the darkness, the disorientation, and the lack of depth perception—all of these factors—probably combined and led to a very bad outcome. This is what the sheriff later told Joan’s parents.
Joan was lucky at first. Despite the odds, she didn’t miss the turn on the trail. She didn’t miss the crape myrtles. Joan took the correct path and was headed straight for the main cabin. Until she stumbled on a root and fell, hard.
Really hard.
Her knee smashed into the ground, taking the brunt of the fall. The impact knocked off her left shoe.
Joan started crying. Quietly, so no one could hear. She tried to collect herself and rolled up into a sitting position, rocking and holding her knee. Moving it gently. Assessing the damage.
A flash of lightning startled her, but also gave her enough light to see that her shoe was only a few feet away.
She tried to stop crying.
She wanted her mommy. Wanted to be home. She wished she hadn’t been spying. Wished she hadn’t seen what she’d seen.
But, she also felt deep down inside that everything would be okay. She knew that Jesus would protect her because she was a good girl.
The moon peeked out from behind the clouds. In the light, Joan crawled toward her shoe. As she did, through her tears, Joan saw movement.
Shadows taking human form.
They appeared, one at a time.
The kids she’d been spying on.
* * *
The following morning, the bugle sounded as it did every day at 8:30 a.m.
Joan’s camp buddy, Ann, was an early riser and was up and ready for breakfast before most. She was surprised to find Joan’s bed empty.
When the other girls in their cabin told her that they hadn’t seen Joan, Ann started looking for her around the campsite. Eventually, exasperated and a little worried, she sought out their troop leader, Beth.
“Are you sure she isn’t just messing around with you?”
Ann shrugged.
“Maybe she’s in the bathroom?” Beth asked.
“Nope. I checked.”
“I bet she went to breakfast early. It wouldn’t be the first time. She’s probably in the mess hall.”
Ann shook her head. “I found this on the trail.” She held up a blue Keds shoe—left foot.
“Ann, you’re not supposed to leave the campsite alone. You know that.”
“I know, but I was worried,” the girl responded, looking down at the shoe in her hand.
Beth took the shoe from Ann and turned it in her hands. “Are you sure it’s hers?”
“Nope,” she replied, biting her lip, “but I think so. Pretty sure.”
Beth thought for a moment, then said, “Give me a few minutes, and we’ll go look for her together. Okay?”
Joan was not in her cabin or any of the others. She wasn’t in the dining hall or anywhere else around camp. At this point, Beth advised the camp director that Joan was missing.
The camp director questioned Ann.
When Ann had gone to sleep at lights-out, Joan was in their cabin, in bed, where she was supposed to be. When Ann woke at the bugle call, Joan was gone. Her bed was mussed—it looked like it had been slept in, or at least lain in, but it was empty.
Ann had found the blue Keds shoe on the trail, past the crape myrtles, on the path to the main cabin. She even showed them the spot.
At the camp director’s instruction, they performed another search of all cabins and the site.
No Joan.
This search had taken another hour, and it was at this point that Joan’s absence became a serious concern.
Just before 10:00 a.m., the camp director called the sheriff’s office. He and two deputies showed up shortly after and took control of the situation. The search for Joan began in earnest at 11:30 a.m.
At 1:00 p.m., the little girl’s body was found at the edge of the river, broken on the rocks below the scenic overlook. It appeared that she had found her way to the edge of the canyon and fallen. She had suffered multiple broken bones, lacerations, and head trauma. Death would have been instantaneous.
Joan’s family was notified. They immediately came to the camp, grief-stricken and withered.
The loss of a child is the ultimate tragedy. I cannot even begin to imagine how th
ey must have felt upon receiving that devastating news.
The other parents, the lucky ones, were notified so that they could decide whether or not to come back early to retrieve their babies, many of whom were traumatized by the incident.
By the time Joan’s body was taken away that evening, it was too late for the officers to do anything more. They agreed to return the next day.
That night at the camp, a service was held in Joan’s memory for the counselors and children who remained.
The next morning, the sheriff and his deputies returned.
You will recall that this all happened almost thirty years ago. Way before the age of high-tech forensics, and long before CSI. It was a more innocent time. Simpler. The sheriff was an elected official—his main qualification for the job was his local popularity. His deputies were locals, too. Their training was minimal.
In a criminal investigation, one of the worst mistakes an investigator can make is allowing preconceived notions to taint the analysis. Unfortunately, that is precisely what happened here. The officers were pretty sure Joan had simply gotten turned around, probably lost her way, and fallen.
They still went through the motions, of course. They questioned the remaining children and the camp counselors, but learned nothing they hadn’t already heard.
Suicide was discounted. Joan was a happy, well-adjusted child. None of the counselors reported any signs of depression or anything else. In fact, they remarked on the little girl’s energy and personality.
Foul play was ruled out, as well. There were no signs of a struggle. Yes, there were other footprints up and down the trail leading to the overlook, but then, there would be. It was a very popular spot frequented by almost everyone at the camp.
Besides, what possible motive could anybody have to harm the little girl?
One deputy suggested the possibility of homicide to cover up another crime. But, what other crime? Joan had had nothing worth stealing. She’d been found fully dressed. She had not been molested in any way. The notion was discarded.
What made the most sense was that it had been an accident. Joan had gone out after hours, contrary to camp policy. She had been alone in the dark and become disoriented, taken a wrong turn, and fallen to her death.
