Chapter Text
It was a dark night, a foggy night, a chilled and stormy and thunderous night. Darkness and mist blanketed the muddy ground and treacherous roots below it. Lightning cracking in the sky and clouds rolling low, it was a night to remember in camp, a night to huddle together and stay silent, to hope and pray and believe it would pass without a notice. Come rain, come clearance, come morning. Everyone safe, everyone fine, nothing to worry, nothing to see.
A bolt cracked the sky, illuminated the room upstairs of the old mill. Twelve beds, line neat and clear along the walls, a boy sitting in each one, upright, starring into the room. Intense eyes, the hairs on their necks raised to the sky, none dared to breath. A young one mumbling silent prayers, a second one clasping his own hands, begging for time to pass, an older one sitting rigid as a board upright in bed. Counting, one, two, three, always counting the beds, four, five, six, seven, if he counted it would be over soon, eight, nine and ten, over with no problem, everything fine, the man in the coat would not be here tonight, surely not tonight, eleven and one and...
Floorboards creaking, wood bending under uncertain weight.
Surely, he miscounted, frightened he messed up, the boy counted again. From one to two to five, seven, ten, eleven, twelve and one more.
The figure standing in the middle of the room, so tall his head almost scrapping the ceiling post, only almost, the tips of his hair perhaps reaching the old and worn wood above him. But he was not supposed to be here, they all new. Eleven and one and not one more, that's what he said, that's the number, eleven and one and one more is too much, so why was this boy here? Who should he replace, whisk away and pretend never existed?
Light illuminated the room once more, another bolt from the sky crashing into the earth outside in the woods and for the split moment of a second in time, the boys all saw him. All saw the face of the person in their room that wasn't supposed to be there.
And all that was left after the silence of the thunder was screaming as rain came down, drowning out the noise from inside the old mill in the woods in the valley just out of town. And with the rain came blood to wash away that night.
It was another long and arduous drive out into the countryside, he thought, lighting another cigarette. Why do they always send him to these places, away from the city to small town mysteries hidden away from prying outsider eyes? “Reminds you of Witness, almost, doesn't it?” the Agent mused, driving down the winding roads hidden underneath a canopy of trees and leaves. “It's always intriguing to see these small communities coming up with the wildest crimes to uncover. Let's just hope this one is as interesting as they made it sound in the report to us Zach.”
Agent Francis York Morgan reached for another smoke from his pack, snipping his used one into the cars ash tray while trying to look over his file he was handed.
It was a peculiar case that had the local authorities request the aid of the FBI; a summer camp not too far out of town had declared a missing child on the night of Sunday the 26th of August. It was not too uncommon for children in this camp to be more adventurous and stay out a night as a test of bravery or try to make it to a small town by foot to prove how adult they already were. But what alarmed the local authorities was that the children themselves reported the missing kid, not the camp director. The kid in question was a roughly 15 year old boy called Johnny. Not know for being fond of trying to be brave per se. Since they couldn't find the kid, they alarmed the FBI and they send York out to investigate.
The agent looked back onto the street as a thud on his car caught his attention and had him hit the brakes at once, swerving the car from left to right and stopping in the middle of the road as his vision was suddenly darkened by a whirlwind of limbs and blood on his windshield. Once the vehicle had stopped and the shock of the Situation had subsided, York had time to really look at what crashed him onto the middle of the road.
“Would you look at that, the birds here seem to greet us in a rather unique way.” Getting out of his car and walking to the front of the vehicle York inspected the bird that had collided with him. A raven with ink black feathers, a poor little thing he mused, had the misfortune of meeting him a bit too fast. Inspecting it a bit closer it appeared dead, neck craned in an unnatural angle, feathers ruffled and gray starting to set in, sprinkled here and there onto the body. What caught his attention though was not the cracked glass, not the old birds strewn feathers over his hood or the blood from it's cracked flesh slowly seeping into the fine lines on the glass and sliding down. It was a stream of something leaving the ravens beak. Looking closer at the something in the ravens beak York was stunted. “You see that too Zach, right? Flour.”
And indeed, white flour was pouring out of the bird as if someone had stuffed the thing before it flew away and died. An ominous omen that his coffee did not mention this morning.
“We should hurry and make sure the bird get's a proper send off before we start our investigation.” Mused the man, reaching for another cigarette from his pack before flicking on the lighter. Smoking a stick took him 2 minutes if he hurried to finish it, on average roughly 5 if he just took it slow. This one took York a minute and a half if he must've guessed, before he grabbed the bird and walked from the road to the side of the forest, laying the bird down onto the ground beneath a tree. Before he turned around to walk away though he made one last interesting discovery on the recently passed animal.
“A missing eye”
York did not want to muse too long on what this could mean in regards to his investigations now, he was already running late on meeting the local law enforcement but it had him wondering how this animal, a bird as smart as a raven, lost its eyeball. Walking back across the country road to his car, still squarely in the middle of the road, tire marks showing how he swerved as he hit the brakes, the man wondered. A dead bird missing an eye, carrying flour in it's beak as if to make it snow, children who disappeared and his coffee not warning him of anything. All the brew showed, he remembered as he turned on his car once more and navigated it back onto the correct side of the road, starting his journey anew, was one thing; “You will find an old secret uncovered in this place”.
What this old secret was, he didn't know but a strange wave of excitement filled him, thinking about what he would potentially discover here.
Refraining from using the wipers to clear the blood, it would probably just smear his windshield even more, York drove while not starring too much at the liquid. A solid 15 minutes passed before his destination became visible to him.
“Welcome to Blackhills” he read out loud as he drove past the sign. “An interesting name for a place so far away from South Dakota and the infamous forest region there, wouldn't you agree Zach?”
The town he arrived in was tiny, according to his research beforehand less than 1,500 people lived here currently, and he was sure a good few of those were starring at his car as he drove past houses and parks and local establishments of various sorts to the police department with his bloodied car and cracked windshield. Parking in the lot of the department and making it out of the vehicle, York stood there for a second taking in the surroundings before walking into the station.
The town was rural, everything neatly crammed together to be reachable by foot, a strange design for American towns, and surrounded by a heavy atmosphere. Something was up here underneath all this peaceful looking surface. If it was just local gossip and small town scandals or something more sinister in correlation to the missing boy tough was yet to be discovered. Step for step he made his way around the lot to the front door of the station, lighting another smoke before entering.
“Excuse me, Sir?” he heard a voice pipe up as the doors to the station closed behind him. A man in his later years with a beer belly and graying hair addressed the agent. “Smoking isn't permitted inside the station. I gotta have to ask you to put that out.” His uniform had seen better days but the name tag on his chest was still readable enough.
“I assume you're the Sheriff Mister Scott?”
The man scoffed amused at Yorks question. “Nah, Deputy Sheriff. Sheriff is Wendel, out back on patrol right now. Any issue you have can be brought before me though” The man leaned back in his chair, getting comfortable in his booth as he eyed York down. “But looking at that suit that screams city slicker and the haircut that screams cop I think you're the guy from the Feds they said they're gonna send?”
“FBI Special Agent Francis York Morgan, please call me York”. Showing his badge and introducing himself, York made a mental note for both these men and their names. No face was no problem if you had a name and something to attach to it. Either the Sheriff was very duty full or wanted to avoid him. “How long until the Sheriff is back?”
Scott looked at the clock before folding his arms on his chest. “10 minutes, give or take. Anything I can help with while we wait? Like getting you a mechanics number, we got quite a few calls about a bloodied vehicle in the last 15 minutes. And our butcher Blair is outta town so bloody car can only mean someone new got theirs banged up.”
“A very close knit community if reporting my car was this fast” There was genuine impressiveness in his voice as York took the time window into account. “And still, it remains elusive why the child was reported missing by his peers and not the camp overseer. Why no one noticed their child not ringing home or the other boys being less than usual.”
A dark shadow crossed the deputies face.
“The camp boys are all outta townees, as is the camp counselor. And he's insisting no one mess with his camp, they don't come into the place here often since camps a good mile or two outta the way in the middle of the bloody forest. They don't wanna have anything to do with the town and frankly the camps a damn creepy place to begin with. Has been since it was established. We keep to ourselves and it's fine. 'til now I guess” Scott rubbed his neck as if to scratch an itch that was just too far beneath the skin to get away from.
York pulled one of the waiting chairs over to the booth and sat down with the man. “How about you fill me in on some more details about the situation while we wait, Scott.”
He saw a shudder running down the mans skin, just barely visible and filed it away for later.
“Well, the boy is called Johnny Ryan, was one of the kids in camp, came here damn near every summer for it. One of twelve kids, it's always twelve kids that come here, one of them leaves for home early sometimes and then they get someone from a camp waiting list or something to take that spot. Johnny was here for the 4th time I think. Last time anyone saw him was the evening before he vanished, his friends at camp saw him at dinner, then they all went to sleep, when they woke up Johnny was gone.” -York interrupted.
“Anyone else besides the camp kids that saw him on that day?”
Scott scratched his chin and seemed to think hard about it. “No clue, no one came forward yet if they did. Like I said, the kids usually stay in camp and it's rare any of them come into town if at all. So yeah, Johnny was last seen at dinner in camp, at around 9pm, they all went to bed and when they woke up at 8am the next day, Johnny was missing from his bed. All his stuff put away neatly and not a clue where he was. A few days later the kids reported him missing after a new child joined the camp from the waiting list. And nothing has happened since then really, aside from the camp overseer telling us to 'mind our own business'”.
“You think the same as me, don't you Zach? We should go and inspect that camp a bit closer.” Tapping his fingers against his temple, York went over the details he was filled in with.
A boy gone missing. A new child appearing. Reported after the fact. A counselor wanting privacy.
“This case should be interesting to unravel for us.”