I found my first missing poster on cleanup detail, picking up after some Boy Scouts staying in the upper loop. Felt like I was always the one on cleanup detail back then; everything from the welcome center, to the latrines. If a bear got into the ancient, rusted dumpster behind the utility shed, you best believe I was responsible for the mess. The work was hard and sweaty. But it kept me outside, and that’s more than I could say for my friends in retail.
But I digress.
I remember actually being pretty stoked about this assignment. The upper loop wound around one of the taller bluffs, where you could get a great view of Mirror lake. These big, craggy peaks penned in the water, so there was never much wind.
Scouts usually left the place pretty clean. Figured I could check the fire pit, turn over some leaves, and call it good before taking in the late afternoon view. But it seemed the park had other plans.
The ashes in the pit were cool to the touch. I found a forgotten tent stake, a couple wrappers, and not much else. I sat down on a petrified stump and looked out at the canopy of golden aspens, blanketing the high alpine valley. Before I could properly relax, the cool autumn breeze rustled the leaves around my feet. Something flapped in the wind, wedged in a pile of twigs. It was big, white, and definitely unnatural. Apparently the Scouts weren’t as tidy as I’d given them credit for.
I was halfway across the clearing before I realized it wasn’t litter, not the usual kind anyway. It was a poster. Somehow, it felt more organic than standard paper; softer, almost like Lamb’s Ear. Hard to say if that was from age, or the material it was printed on. Though faded, I could still plainly make out the text.
“Missing: Winifred Porter,” I read aloud. There was a number to call, and a rendering of the woman in question. I say rendering, because I got the impression this wasn’t a photo. It looked like a police sketch, but a damn good one. Her eyes were wide and frightened, like she was scared of whoever drew her. She had dark hair, some wrinkles, a tiny nose and a sharp-looking chin.
If I’d bothered to read the rest of the text, I may have written the whole thing off as prank and thrown it in the trash. At the very least, I would’ve spared myself the absolutely catastrophic mistake that would turn my life upside down.
Instead, I did what any upstanding citizen would do: I figured the poster was real, perhaps that she had gotten lost in the park and a loved one had returned to tack up fliers. That in mind, I studied her face, creased the page, and tucked it into my pocket. If I saw something, I resolved, I’d call the number.
Crispy leaves crunched beneath my boots along the meandering path back to the park’s front office. The whole situation stuck in my mind like a splinter. If someone had gone missing, why hadn’t a search party been called?
My thoughts snapped back to the presence when my foot snagged on a gnarled root. I stumbled, throwing out my arms and latching onto the heavy bough of a trailside pine tree. Another few feet, and I would’ve tumbled over the edge into Beckett’s Gulch. The snow melt stream seemed to laugh at me from down below, as it cut its course deeper into the rock and toward Mirror Lake.
As I straightened up, my eyes fell on the opposite embankment. There she was: Winifred Porter.
I dug the poster out of my pocket, and unfolded it with trembling hands. There was no mistaking the resemblance. She wore a thick flannel shirt, with a rain jacket tied around her hips. Her hair wasn’t down like in the drawing. Instead, a tight ponytail poked through the back of a tattered red ball cap. The woman didn’t look scared, either. She leaned on her walking stick, smiling at the view.
Was there a chance this was just a crazy coincidence? I needed to know. I cupped my hands and shouted across the divide: “Winifred!”
She startled, spun on the spot, looking for the source of the echoing call. Her section of the trail was a bit lower than mine in elevation. That meant while I could easily see her, she would have a very difficult time spotting me.
“Winifred,” I repeated. But my voice was lost in a sudden gust of howling wind. She lingered another moment. I prayed the breeze would let up long enough that I could call out again. Before it did, she turned and continued down the trail, out of view. The missing woman was lost in again in the creaking pines.
We didn’t have cell phones back then. Those who could’ve afforded one wouldn’t have gotten service this far out, anyhow. I’d have to call in the sighting at one of the pay phones at the front office.
I sprinted down the rest of the trail, not slowing down until the old log cabin came into view.
The A-frame style building stood along the lake’s artificial beach. Out front, a long gravel road looped around the flagpole. A row of pay phones stood a stone’s throw from the front steps, protected from the elements by a small overhanging hutch. I jogged over to one of the two that reliably worked, poster still clutched in my fist. I dropped a quarter into the slot, and punched in the number printed on the page.
The ringing that came through the receiver sounded distorted, wrong, somehow. Each tone dragged on a half-second too long, crackling as it went. Maybe the connection was bad?
Before I could ponder any further, someone picked up, treating me to an unholy static sound that still sets my teeth on edge. It wasn’t steady, like what you’d hear from a poorly tuned TV. Instead, it inflected with the usual ups and downs of human speech. Someone was on the other end, and they were trying to talk to me.
“Hello?” I asked.
The static abated, then began racing off again, like raving, distorted babbling. The voice—I was sure there was a voice to it now—sounded both twisted and underwater all at the same time.
I tried again, louder this time: “I’m calling about Winifred Porter. I think I’ve spotted her.”
The hiss of the distortion intensified. Somehow the speech behind it felt a little clearer. I pressed the plastic receiver against my ear until it hurt. “Can you repeat that?”
Whoever was on the other end paused, then spoke again. The noise followed the same cadence and tone as before. I managed to make out a single phrase: “Look for your face in the basement,” it said. “You’re the last one.”
Pure nonsense. I must’ve misheard.
“Look for what?” I demanded.
The call crackled, then ended.
Disconnected.
My right ear rang for a moment in the sudden silence. I dropped the phone back into its cradle while I patted myself down for more change. A dime, a few pennies, not enough money to repeat the call. I drummed my fingers on the top of the phone. A woman’s life depended on me. Perhaps the local police could help.
I dialed, and waited.
“9-1-1 what’s your emergency?” The operator’s voice came across crystal clear, without a trace of the crackling.
“Ah—hi, yes. I think I may have spotted a missing woman. There was a poster, with a number to call, but…” I trailed off.
“Oh, hold on, I’ll transfer you.”
The phone rang again.
“Detective Walker, here,” a low, tired voice said.
“Hello, I’m Bert Cypress; campground attendant up in the reserve.” Looking back, I feel ridiculous for introducing myself unprompted. Oh, the problems I’d have been spared… “I think I may have found a missing woman.”
The man perked up a little. “Really? Alive, I’m hoping?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, glad to hear it.” Papers rustled in the background. A pen clicked. “What was this woman’s name?”
“Winifred Porter.”
“Win-if-red… Por-ter,” Walker repeated. I could hear the scratching of his pen. More papers shuffled. “Doesn’t sound familiar. I don’t have the file, hang on.” Walker raised his voice, calling out to his coworkers. “Any of you got a missing persons report for a Winifred Porter?”
Some background chatter came through the phone line.
Walker’s voice returned, much louder now: “None of us are working a case for a Winifred. But a park that big, she could be from out of state. Someone probably made the report back home,” he reasoned. “How did you say you knew she was missing?”
“Flier, up at the campground where I work.”
“Okay, and did it give an agency name, or case number, anything like that?”
I unfolded the page and scanned it. I froze when I reached the text beneath the image. I blinked, and re-read, certain I was making a mistake. The “reported missing” date wouldn’t come to pass for another three days.
“Still there, Bert?” Walker asked.
The police. Right.
“Ah-yeah, sorry,” I stammered. “I’m calling from work. Distractions all over the place. Uh, no. Now you mention it, I don’t remember an agency on the poster.” I crumpled the page in my hand and stuffed it into my pocket. “Sorry to have wasted your time, sir. Sounds like I was mistaken.”
“Maybe not. I’ll call around and see what I can turn up.” Boredom crept back into his voice, with the realization I had unwittingly dumped a truckload of additional work in his lap. “Call back if you remember anything more.”
I stood there for a good thirty seconds, dumbstruck, before realizing the detective had hung up on me. I leaned on the phone bank, thinking through the situation.
My first inkling was that this was some kind of prank. This was a pretty common way to pass the time among staff back then. Those of you who’ve worked in a campground may be able to relate. I’d pulled a few practical jokes on my colleagues lately. Nothing mean-spirited, but I still was due a good scare in return.
But the more I thought it through, the less sense it made. Why use a real woman, unless she was in on it?
If the flier was real, the date could’ve been a misprint. Then again, police should still have a matching report on hand. Sounded like Walker would figure that out eventually, based on the direction it was going. But I didn’t want to have to wait that long to figure out what was going on.
Then it hit me.
“Visitor logs,” I muttered. Why wait for police to find the answers, when I could satisfy my curiosity now?
I dropped the phone back into its cradle, and pulled open the heavy front door to the main lodge, and stepped inside.
Windows lined the wall opposite the entry, along with doors out onto a deep porch overlooking the lake. To my right, a tiny trading post stocked the items most folk forget: bug spray, rain ponchos, that sort of thing. Beyond that was the mess hall.
Back then, visitors could get three square meals a day for their site fees. The smell wafting from the kitchen always mixed with the perpetually crackling fire in the stone hearth, making the room feel all the more cozy.
Once I was sure the lobby was empty, I hopped over the check-in counter to peek at the guest book. Every visitor was supposed to check in and pay here, before heading off to their campsite. I’d chased off enough freeloaders to know that not everyone did sign in. Winifred’s absence in the book didn’t mean she wasn’t here. But if she did…
Bam. I flipped the page, and there she was. Winifred Porter, scrawled in looping cursive. She wasn’t missing. She’d barely just checked in.
“What are you doing back there?” A stern voice demanded. I looked up.
In the doorway, a woman clad in an olive uniform stood with her hands on her hips, wearing an expression that looked more like confusion than anger. From her name tag pinned just above her breast pocket, I gathered her name was Ruth, one of our Rangers.
She repeated the question: “What are you doing?”
“I was—” a dozen lies flitted through my mind. When a realized each felt even less plausible than the truth, I settled on that instead: “—looking for someone. Thought I recognized a woman from a missing poster, out on the trail.”
Ruth slipped out of her authoritative posture, letting her arms fall to her sides as she crossed the room to the desk. “Did you call it in?”
“Yeah, but…” I trailed off.
“But what?”
I chuckled. “It’s nothing. Someone’s idea of a bad joke.” I tapped the book. “She’s here. Signed in less than two hours ago. Paid the full weekend.”
Her eyes scanned the room for eavesdroppers as she drew closer. Apparently not satisfied, she joined me behind the counter. “The date on that poster; has it happened yet?” A strong smell of coffee clung to her breath.
I shook my head.
“Then we need to go.”
“Go where?”
“After her—where else?”
Ruth had to be in on it. “Are you screwing with me right now? You leave the poster up there? Brian got you in on this, didn’t he? If he’s still mad about that thing with the canoe—”
“This isn’t a joke.” She narrowed her eyes at me, revealing crows feet etched into her face by years of squinting in the sun. She was definitely in on it; how else would she know my name?
I fixed my slouching posture, long enough to squeeze an extra inch out of my height. “Ma’am, you’re the ranger, I’m the campground attendant. You rescue people, I pick up after them. I told the police, and told you. That’s my job done. Park service doesn’t pay me enough to go traipsing after women who aren’t lost.”
“Listen, Bert—” Ruth grabbed me by the arm, blocking me from leaving. “—you’re gonna want to get involved. If not to save her, then yourself.”
My skin felt hot. If this was some sort of hazing, it had gone way too far. And if it wasn’t, how did she know my name?
“Why?” I drew out the question, exasperated.
“You won’t believe me if I tell you. I have to show you.” Ruth started toward the hallway beside the fireplace, opposite the mess hall. She turned back to me. “At least satisfy your own curiosity. If you still think I’m full of it, I’ll handle this alone.”
I really was starting to get curious, not that I would’ve admitted that to Ruth. My brain remained reluctant to except the poster as anything other than a misprint, or an elaborate hoax. As the ranger led me down the hallway toward the stairs, I kept expecting my coworkers to jump out and startle me. By the time we made it down stairs, and into the rec rooms, I started to wonder whether the other shoe would ever drop. I just wanted it over with.
Ruth led my down the rows of well-loved game tables filled the space. We passed a family shooting pool with the only cues that humidity hadn’t warped. A dehumidifier chugged in the corner of the room, fighting to keep mold at bay. From the musty smell in the air, I gathered this was a losing battle.
Beyond a door marked “employees only,” Ruth led me through a storage room with soaring ceilings. My unease grew as we weaved between piles of water sports equipment, all pulled inside for the coming winter: row boats, canoes, and storage crates full of life preservers. Where on earth was she taking me?
“Just a minute.” Ruth stopped by a repair bench to fish out her keys. We had reached the end of the store room, at the end of the lodge. Nothing else was here.
I stooped, searching for the feet of hiding colleagues, standing behind the rows of piled junk. Again, nothing.
“Here we are.” Ruth pulled back the cover of a light switch that had never worked, revealing a hidden lock. She worked an ancient-looking key inside. When it turned, a bolt behind the wall released with a hefty clank. A shelf of oars and paddles swung forward to reveal a concealed door.
Ruth beckoned.
I sucked in my gut as I shimmied through the opening. Ruth yanked the shelf closed.
Dozens upon dozens of faces stared down at me from the walls, their terrified expressions captured in expertly-done sketches. Someone had plastered this secret room with untold hundreds of the bulletins, all identical in style to the one I’d found.
“Missing.”
The word seemed to taunt me from above each face. The “call if seen,” number printed above every single image, matched the one I had dialed less than half an hour ago.
The dates of the disappearances varied wildly. Some had come and gone decades ago. Others wouldn’t transpire for years. Most posters were linked to a large map of the park by a pair of push-pins, and a length of blue thread. I gathered these were location markers. But if there was any pattern to them, I wasn’t seeing it.
“Please tell me you kept the poster.” Ruth held her hand outstretched, expectant.
Almost unconsciously, I found my own hands digging into my pocket and unfolding the crumpled sheet.
Ruth laid the page flat on a desk below the map. She brushed her hand across it, erasing any signs of wrinkling, or creasing. She mounted Winifred’s likeness to the first free space on the wall, then handed me a blue tack.
“Show me where you found it.”
My hand hovered over the map, searching for familiar landmarks. I pressed it into the surface, just beside the location for the upper loop.
Ruth stood back and surveyed the map. “Makes sense,” she muttered. “Downwind.”
“What, what are these?” I asked, rediscovering my voice.
“Every one of these people either has, or will go missing after coming to the park.”
“What’s happening to them?”
“Kidnapping, or abduction, if you want to call it that. Police have never found a body.” She gestured to a stack of Polaroids on the desk. They looked like crime scene photos. “Usually just find scraps of clothing here and there.”
I shuffled through the pile. They weren’t half as gory as I expected. Clearings, campsites… condos? “Not all of these are from inside the park.”
“Never said they were.”
“So someone—”
“Something,” Ruth corrected.
“—sees all these people in the park, stalks them, and eventually abducts them?”
“That’s right.” She turned her back on me, and started rummaging through the desk drawers.
“And the posters, what, predict it?”
“Haven’t been wrong yet—ah!” She held up a spool of blue thread. “There you are.”
“But where do they come from?”
Ruth scoffed. “What do you think I’m trying to figure out?” She unraveled a length of string, fixing one end to the pin I added on the map, and the other to the tack supporting Winifred’s poster. “Almost all of them are turning up East of the lake. I think the wind is carrying them from someplace.”
I studied the other faces along the wall. Whoever was doing the taking didn’t seem to discriminate. Men, women, young, old… there must’ve been hundreds.
As I surveyed the pictures, I spotted one seemingly set apart from the others. The strangest sense of recognition gripped me. I knew him, I was sure of it. My brain tried to reconcile the simultaneous feelings that I’d seen this face every day, and that it belonged to a total stranger.
My heart leapt into my throat when I recognized the name printed above the drawing as my own: Robert Cypress.
Words tumbled out of my mouth, buzzing on my tongue as if I were allergic to them: “Look for your face in the basement,” I repeated the phrase from the telephone, the one I’d written off as nonsense: “You’re the last one.”
Ruth set the thread down, and turned to look at me. “What did you say?”
“When I called the number, The static—” my legs shook. “—it knew somehow, what I’d find down here.”
Ruth mumbled an apology, something about easing me into it, but I scarcely heard her. I was too focused on the picture.
He—or me, I suppose—looked like a version of my grandfather time treated with more cruelty. I didn’t recognize the bushy beard, nor the scars that traced the side of my neck and cheek, ending at a mangled ear. But the cleft chin, wide nose, and birthmark just below the right eye, were unmistakably mine.
My stomach writhed as I imagined the gnarly injury I appeared destined to endure. What happened to me? No—what would happen to me?
“I didn’t recognize you at first, or I would’ve approached you sooner.” Ruth put her hand on my shoulder. Her touch barely registered in my brain. There was something different about this poster, and I needed to understand what.
Not just that it was me. No, it was in the eyes. Unlike every other subject on the walls, my likeness looked completely composed, smirking even, without the faintest trace of fear.
“Of all the posters I’ve found, and the ones my old boss found before me, none have a date after yours.” Ruth let her fingers slip off my back. “You’re the last person who will go missing. We need to find out why.”
My wandering eyes skimmed to the bottom of the poster before I could stop them: “Reported missing: February 23rd, 2024.”
At the time I first saw the poster, that date felt both an eternity, and a fortnight away. I had too much life left to justify a reckless blaze of glory, but not enough to consider ever having a family of my own.
As if she could read my thoughts, Ruth said: “You’ve got more time than all of these people. If you use it well, I think we may be able to figure out what’s causing this.”
“Who, or whatever takes them, it never comes early?” I asked.
“I see what you’re getting at. If you’re asking whether you’re death-proof until the date on the wall, I’ve got no idea,” Ruth said. “But judging by your sketch there, you sure as shit aren’t injury-proof.”
I looked away from the poster, and back to the map of the park. Every muscle in my body begged me to leave.
“Do you really want this thing hanging over you for the next 30 years?” She asked.
Of course I didn’t. I needed to know what was going to happen to Winifred; what would one day happen to me.