Head-First Into the Abyss

I left the police barracks in a daze. I felt like I had suddenly been thrown into a horror film. A part of me wondered if O’Connor was having a laugh at my expense, playing an elaborate prank on me. My instincts told me otherwise.

After I recovered from O’Connor’s ghoulish revelation about a bloodless corpse, I wanted nothing more than to dive deeper into the darkness I found myself in. Again, I relied on my intuition, an unshakable feeling deep in my gut that told me to push further despite my head telling me to stop and get far, far away from Cold Hollow. At the same time, all my journalistic ambitions seemed to have evaporated after finding myself so close to an actual murder. To this day, I’m still not sure why I kept going. Perhaps it was due to some naïve notion that cracking the story could somehow help bring justice for Nicole. Perhaps it was just morbid curiosity. Whatever the case, I renewed the promise I had made to myself; I wasn’t leaving Cold Hollow until I knew what had happened to all those missing women, and who killed Nicole Spencer.

Instead of heading home, I made my way to the county's historical society. The yellowed drooping carriage house behind the county jail often looked abandoned, but it was dutifully staffed for several hours on most weekdays by a team of elderly volunteers. It was a long shot, but I thought I’d swing by to see if there was anyone working that weekend.

To my surprise, the doors were open and a husky woman in a dark dress with severe eyebrows, purple mascara, and jet-black hair stood beside the reference desk reviewing notes on a clipboard.

“Can I help you?” she asked, eying me suspiciously.

I had the sense that I was unwelcome.

“Yeah, my name is Kelly. I work for the—” but she stopped me by completing my sentence.

“The Chronicle, yes. I know who you are,” she said. “Unfortunately, we’re closed for the weekend.

I was anxious to start looking through the archives as soon as possible, but I got the impression that this volunteer was determined to keep me away from the records. I had to think fast in order to ingratiate myself and noticed she wore around her neck a small crystal delicately encased in silver wrap.

“Ooh, I love your necklace,” I said, leaning in to take a slightly closer look at the stone.

She rolled her eyes. “Amethyst,” she said.

“Ah, for protection?” I answered, trying to pretend that I actually knew something about crystals. Turns out it was a lucky guess. She clutched the stone in her hand and looked at it as if she was double-checking on what it was for herself.

“How long will you be? I’m leaving in less than an hour,” she said.

“Well, I guess I’ll be done in less than an hour,” I answered and smiled.

She led me into a windowless room located slightly below ground level. Stacks of banker’s boxes lined the walls and multiple standing shelves. She explained to me the way the boxes were organized, but I had the sense that she was reciting a script she had memorized rather than actually knowing where I could find what I was looking for.

When I was finally left alone in the quiet of that paper graveyard, I felt the weight of the information O’Connor had shared finally settle into me. I tried to push away thoughts of Nicole’s bloodless body as I pulled out a box labeled ‘Cold Hollow Chronicle - 1993.’ I started loading microfilm into the reader and scanning the projected pages for any mention of missing women.

Looking through every daily issue of the Chronicle was a grinding task, but it was necessary. At that point, I knew of at least six women who had gone missing from the Cold Hollow area in the last few years alone. Surely, I would eventually find mention of at least one of them somewhere. Hopefully that would be enough to go on.

I was on my seventeenth or eighteenth slide when the name Leah Ackerman was mentioned.

WATERVILLE MAN QUESTIONED IN ACKERMAN DISAPPEARANCE

Vermont State Police have a new lead in the case to find out what happened to Leah Ackerman, a nineteen-year-old girl who disappeared in July and whose body was found three months later in Cambridge State Forest. Law enforcement as well as Leah’s parents, Steve and Laura, began asking the public to come forward with any information regarding the missing woman’s disappearance last Monday. By Thursday, police brought in a potential suspect for questioning. Jackson Meyers, a forty-three-year-old truck-driver, is thought to have been the last person to see Leah before her death. However, Meyers has since been released from police custody and it is unclear if he is a suspect. Leah, who would have been twenty years old on October 2nd, was found by hikers in Cambridge State Forest.

 There was no mention of any unusual circumstances surrounding Ackerman’s death, such as a lack of blood, and I doubted that would be something a reporter would leave out. The only thing that suggested foul play was the insinuation that Meyers, the truck-driver, had been picked up for questioning.

I kept reading, scanning each article for any familiar names. I really had been joking when I brought up vampires to Owen, but part of me was starting to wonder if I should head over to the library after this and pick up some books on the supernatural. You never know what sources might help connect the dots, but vampires? I had to laugh. It was absolutely absurd. More than that, I felt like I was straying from serious journalism into fiction.

A loud knock startled me out of my studious daze at 3:50 PM on the dot. Sue, the clerk who had signed me in, ran a tight ship, and all materials needed to be returned to their proper archival boxes ten minutes before closing. I considered asking her to print some of the articles for me but she seemed anxious to leave and I didn’t want to press my luck, considering I might need her help again during a later visit.

I left the archives with a few new leads, but nothing that I felt would lead to a breakthrough in the mystery. The fact was that I had no idea where this case was going. No idea what I was stepping into. But now, looking back, I don’t see how anything could have ever prepared me for what lay in store.

[BONUS TEASER FROM NEXT EPISODE]

A Bar Full of Surprises

The drive back to my apartment was calming, mostly thanks to the well-worn Pixies tape now stuck in the cassette player. There was something so comforting about singing the lyrics to a familiar song, if you can call yelling out an open window singing.

That night, like most nights since I moved to Cold Hollow, I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts. I had spent the last ten hours imagining all the ways someone could drain a person of all their blood without spilling a single drop. I needed a distraction.

In spite of everything that had happened the night before, I considered calling Misty again, but quickly decided against it. I didn’t want to seem needy, and she seemed like the kind of person who needed time to cool off. I, on the other hand, could brush things off as easily as I could get angry. It was something that Elle always complained about, how quickly I could act as if nothing had happened after a fight.

I was out of beer, but there was no way I could make it to the store before they closed. The only alternative was to head to the Drift again, but the idea of sitting at the bar sounded only slightly more appealing than staying at home alone. There was also the distinct possibility that I could run into Misty if I went out, but I needed to get away from all the notes and maps and articles pasted around my apartment making me feel like a lunatic. I decided I’d go to the Drift for one, maybe two, and I promised myself that, if Misty was there, I would be cordial, but that I would give her space.