To the average person with the most basic experiences, a post such as this can be a simple task you’d forget in the following weeks and months. However, this isn’t some meme. It certainly isn’t a confession, despite what some might believe. It’s a testimony, retribution for all of the tinfoil hat-wearing conspiracy theorists. I don’t know if I believe in the boogeyman or a giant serpent that dwells within lochs. I do believe that nature has a tendency to go off script and concoct things that even the most insane of individuals have a hard time accepting.
I was a father, and I’m not going to claim I was a perfect father. I made mistakes, missing the occasional ball game because I would rather drink with friends. I was also a husband, and my imperfections seeped into that relationship as well. I would never once claim I didn’t love my family though. I helped with my son’s homework occasionally, and I did everything I could to help with my wife’s chronic pain despite the hatred she had for me since discovering the affair I had prior to her accident. We were a family that stayed together no matter the incident, however. That was the case before the Cricket took my son, and my wife blamed me for it all.
It was close to the 4th of July over two years ago and our time was spent preparing for the festivities. My family and I lived together in rural Missouri, living on a small plot of land. We took advantage of it every 4th, making a modestly sized firework show for friends and family. You see, we had a spacious backyard that had a tool/watershed as well as some other structures that remained from the previous owner who was a farmer. Connected to that backyard was a gate, and past that gate was a small field. Looking out from the gate, if you looked to your left was a dense pocket of trees filled with rosebushes and thick brush.
It was just me and Andrew (my son), and we were cutting down the tall grass in the field to accommodate the fireworks we would later set up. While I ran the mower I had Andrew moving limbs and various other things to the edge of the trees in a neat pile. There wasn’t much work to go left as the sun began to descend, indicating our busy day was about to come to a close. I had my wireless headphones on, blaring the same tired ’80s hairband playlist that played many times before. When I was nearly done with the last row of grass, I looked near the area my son would have been finishing up as well.
However, he was nowhere to be seen. It wasn’t like he would be deep in the plot of trees, because right at where the pile was thick thorns and brush that no one had any business going through. I rode my mower to the pile to see if he just wasn’t sitting down somewhere where the view was the least bit obscured. He wasn’t there. The pile sat neatly where it was instructed to be, not a soul in sight. Oddly enough as well, the sounds of cicadas were at an uncharacteristic silence. I pulled down my headphones, the blare of music being the only comfort in the defining silence. After a moment of sitting there trying to figure out where my son went, I started to hear one of the most disheartening sounds of my life.
I heard the soft whimpers of a child, and at that, I dove off of my mower and ran towards the brush. It sounded like the whimpering was coming past the thorns, and I had no choice but to dive through it. As expected, it hurt like a mother. I usually only wear a t-shirt and shorts while mowing since I had my son do most of the other tasks while doing yard work. I ran and ran through the dense brush, tripping along the way while letting out a stream of curses under my breath in between the cries for my son.
“Andrew” I cried through hurried breath.
Yet there was no answer, and I kept running. It was roughly 50 more yards of running through the brush that I realized something was off with this picture. I should’ve come out the other side of the pocket of trees into my neighbor’s yard, one of the few that were scattered in the area our house was in. While you wouldn’t notice on either side because of how dense everything was, it was only a 45-yard walk through the brush and the trees between houses. At this point I had run, I don’t know, roughly 60. Another peculiar thing was how dark it was despite there still being a few hours before sunset. What was supposed to be a soft orange of the late day sun was the dark purple and shadow that indicated a time best spent eating dinner or getting ready for bed.
This time the whimpering started to my left, and I promptly changed direction. The further I moved in this direction the more I heard other sounds. The sounds of cicadas, crickets, and owls came alive in a cacophony of nature. These noises the “animals” made weren’t natural though. It sounded almost like the noises made were intended to be a mockery of the real things. The cricket’s chirps sounded like they were chastising me, and the cicada’s trill sounded like alien laughter as I bled and cursed, and the owl’s hoot sounded like it was alarming all of its kin of the games that were being played in the wilderness tonight.
I tripped again, and it caused me to stumble down a leaf-covered hill into a very small clearing surrounded by trees. I lay on the ground as the noises grew louder. They circled around me, all of them coming together to form a tidal wave the river Styx itself conjured up to torment me. All of the times I skipped my son’s baseball games, the secret affair I swore wouldn’t continue after my wife got in a car accident, and even the time I kept it secret that my sister stole some of my dad’s money to purchase alcohol way back in high school. It all slammed like a sledgehammer, and in the dirt, I started to hyperventilate.
My eyes darted around the clearing frantically, and in my panicked state, I started to see glowing eyes of various colors and shapes. All of them stared at me, and each of them told their own story. Some looked at me with vicious mockery. Others looked at me with unfathomable hate. There were even a few that I could say genuinely pitied me for the position I was in. One stood out over the rest, one I now call Cricket. While the other eyes betrayed a short stature or animalistic hunch, these eyes towered. A disgusting brown color glared into my eyes, and unlike the other eyes, their intention wasn’t clear. They were almost indifferent as if this was the only way it would end. The figure approached me, the shadows surrounding us getting darker and the noises getting louder. I couldn’t hear the mockery, the hunger, the hate, or the despair as the figure loomed over me in abysmal shadow. I only heard a ringing like tinnitus in my ears.
I don’t know what happened after that though, because what I recollect after that is a desperate spring to my porch. I crashed through my backdoor, startling my wife. I crashed on the floor and started speaking in such a hurried tone that my wife stood no chance of deciphering such lunacy. The only thing she could decipher gave her pause, and she stared at me in confusion and shock.
“Our boy” I choked out.
“What did you do?” she asked with venom in her voice
“I-I-I’m so sorry, Please help me-help us. I don’t know what to do…what we do. I don’t know help me” I repeated
After that everything was a blur. My wife called the police while my mind unraveled on the ground. The following months were filled with questions. Questions as to what my mental state was, for which abnormally dissipated as if it were the flu. Questions as to my involvement in the disappearance, which wasn’t conclusive due to lack of evidence I even did anything aside from going insane. It didn’t matter if the police or people I used to call friends had their suspicions. What hurt most was my wife actually believed I would commit an atrocious act such as filicide. She left to live with her parents since the car accident left her with chronic pain and she couldn’t really afford to live on her own.
I wasn’t alone though. Throughout the investigation, I came into contact with someone. He was of average height, a fit build, and he sported dark brown hair with dark brown eyes. They were tired eyes, something he said we shared. He gave me advice on how to avoid certain questions. He wasn’t exactly a friend, but I could tell he was in my corner. While I stayed hidden in my home from prying eyes for the past two years he would send the occasional text asking how I was doing. Eventually, he started providing more. Information as to what transpired, as well as why he had an interest in the ruined life I have now. This is what I have learned thus far.