I’m in Stoneview. I have been here one week.
Something is very wrong here.
PhilipC, the list you posted last week—I have to know how you procured it. Whoever you are, how you came to find out the names of the children that were killed back in 1983, I have no idea. Detective Yates back in Ashford isn’t returning my phone calls, Jay and Amy have been out of touch for almost a month now, and I’m starting to get the distinct sense I’m not welcome up here anymore.
There’s one thing Yates told me that I haven’t mentioned here until now. Those thirteen children that the Engineer murdered in these town twenty-three years ago—the ones he shot the eyes out of, leaving empty holes in the skulls—not one of them stayed in their graves for more than a week.
Someone dug them up.
I have been to visit two of the graves where these children were laid to rest. In one case, the stone was left in place, though the child’s body was never recovered. None of them were. The remains disappeared, every one of them. The people here know about these things, and here in Stoneview they look at me in the street. They know who I am. None of them will talk to me.
Last night at my motel room, late, someone tapped on my window. When I went to the door, they were gone. There was a single sheet of paper taped to the door. It was completely blank.
I have heard through different channels, none of them direct, that there may be someone else in these same towns, another writer working on a book, a fictional account of these same occurrences.
Outside my window, it’s pouring down rain. Six o’clock at night and almost completely dark. Is it supposed to get dark this early in this part of the world?
I miss my wife and the boys, but I know I have to keep going to the end of the route and find out what’s there. I’m leaving tomorrow.
Right now I am in Stoneview.
I have been here one week.