Jack Follman

“All washed up in rivers, lakes, officially listed causes of death range from exposure, alcohol poisoning and mostly commonly, drowning. All written off as accidents. College guys who got too drunk, wandered off on cold nights and fell into bodies of water or froze out in the woods. But that’s not what everyone thinks.”

Before his words could sink in, Daniel pushed me towards the approaching fire and was back out the door before I could turn around to catch a glimpse of him. I ran up to the door, tried to open it, but he must have managed to lock it tightly from the outside.

“I saw you on the news. That guy got shot at your house and now they are looking for you, but can’t find you. A lot of people think you are dead, but then I was looking at our security camera from a few days ago and I saw you.”

Plastered on the milk carton was a picture of what I recognized as me at an age so young my internal memory never ventured back there, probably about two years old, maybe three. The picture was tucked beneath the word MISSING and surrounded by information that was utterly foreign to me, including the name of the missing boy who looked exactly like me.

I have never told anyone about this… but it’s time to get something off my chest. I need to push the darkness of the one horrifying day of my childhood off of my chest like a bench press or the weight of it is going to eventually slip down and choke me to death.

This island was started by the government in the 70s. Back then, there was this cult, the Sistines, they lived up in the mountains a ways outside of Seattle. No one really knew that their beliefs were, but after the Manson Family thing happened in California, the state freaked out and sent a bunch of Marshals and cops up to their camp.

It was another poor choice. The path I had chosen was steeply uphill and I quickly lost steam.

I awoke to the sound of feet shuffling outside of my bedroom door.