The Terrible Secret My Grandparents Hid From Our Family

A month ago, my grandmother passed away. It wasn’t exactly unexpected, she had been 94 and suffered from dementia. It some ways, it was a blessing. No more worrying about whether she remembered to turn off the oven or her going down to the basement to do her laundry. To everyone’s surprise, Gram had left the house to me. Lots of anger and resentment over that part of the will, but I was so grateful. Gram knew I was struggling with rent and raising a young child on my own. This gave me a home, rent and mortgage free. No more low cost apartments with shady neighbors, afraid to stumble on a drug deal in the hallway or a stranger walking down the hall with the neighbors television.

Pulling up the shaded driveway always brought back lots of good memories of my summers — the white dogwood tree in front of the living room window, the blackberry bramble high on the hill in the back, the trails in the small wooded patch between Gram’s house and my Aunt Sherri’s. I took to the steps that wound around the back of the house to the sliding glass door that led directly into the kitchen. Unlocking the door, I stepped into the dated eat-in kitchen, breathing in the smell of the house, it still smelled of Gram, a unique smell all its own, fresh baked bread, skin cream, and pastel mints.

The house itself was on the smaller side, just the main floor, basement, and an attic. Gram built the house in ’68, right after Grandpap was killed in a construction accident, and she couldn’t bear to live in the “big house” on the top of the hill with all of the memories. So this smaller house was built for her and my then 12-year-old mother, my aunts and uncles already grown and on their own. I decided to first do a walk through and see what needed done, what few items were left over from the battle over possessions and what repairs would need to be done immediately so my six-year-old daughter Amy and I could move in as soon as possible.

The day went by quickly after I got my cleaning supplies from the car. There were few pieces of furniture left, mostly large items that were probably too heavy to get out, however my Gram’s room was untouched, her small twin bed, vanity and old cedar chest at the foot of the bed. I got the house scrubbed from top to bottom, my nose stinging from the bleach I’d used on the kitchen and bathroom floors. The sun was setting through the living room window. My mom had picked up Amy after school and was going to keep her for the weekend so I could work on moving stuff into the house. I opted to take a shower, scattering a few towels I found under the sink on the floor since I was short a shower curtain. I popped a TV dinner I’d found in the freezer into the microwave. I ate my dinner on the living room floor with my tablet playing Netflix. Once my stomach was full, I decided to climb into bed. I was so relieved that I could crawl into Gram’s old bed, rather than sleep on the floor in Amy’s Frozen sleeping bag I’d brought with me. It was still early, but tomorrow I was picking up the moving truck and my boyfriend said he would help me get our stuff moved.

Pulling the blankets back, I climbed into the tiny twin size bed, hearing a groaning squeak coming from the protesting antique. After so much work during the day, it wasn’t hard to fall asleep…but it didn’t last very long. I startled awake, eyes adjusting to the dim moonlight. What just woke me up? I sat up, straining to listen, I swear it was a sound, but I was greeted only by the distant hum of the fridge and the silence of an empty house. Sighing, I laid back down, determined to get back to the dream about the Jensen Ackles I was pleasantly having. Scratch. Scratch. Knock. My eyes fluttered open. I know I heard it that time. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. I looked to the ceiling, it must be chipmunks or maybe even a raccoon in the attic, I thought. Scratch. Knock. Knock.

Stupid effing rodents, I grumbled. I laid back down pulling the blankets over my head.

I woke to a knock at the door. “Hold your horses, I’m coming, I’m coming,” I shouted.

I was greeted by the sight of my boyfriend Brant at the sliding glass door, a big smile on his face, as he held up a bag with faint grease stains and a drink carrier with coffee. I couldn’t help it, I grinned as I pulled open the door, ushering him inside. “Mmmmm, thank you!” I said. I sniffed the bag, the smell of freshly fried donuts met my nose, my mouth didn’t even get a chance to water, I tore into the bag like a ravenous toddler.

We had a quick discussion about how we planned to attack the move. Once our coffee was nearly done, we made our way out and back to my apartment, spending our day shuffling boxes and lugging furniture. The day went by in a blur of back breaking work, stubbed toes, and knuckles bruised off of narrow hallways. By dark everything was moved, ready to be unpacked and put away. I managed to get most of the stuff into the big room, which would be mine. It was nearly midnight when I climbed into my own bed for the first time in my new home.

Things have been going great, Amy loves the new house, she loves her new school, she has quickly made new friends, even her new invisible friend Claire. I enjoy my mornings spent on the porch outside of the kitchen sipping my coffee, working from my tiny old bedroom which I’d converted to my office. Brant comes over a few nights a week, we’ve been talking about him possibly moving in. Life has been great. I only have one complaint: The scratching has returned after two months of quiet nights. Amy sleeps through it, I, however, do not. I’ve realized after a good inspection of the attic, there are no openings an animal could get through. It has been an entire week now that I have not gotten to sleep. Last night, I sat up listening and I figured out the sounds are coming from my room, from the cedar chest which has remained unopened and ignored…I had moved it to the big bedroom I now sleep in when we first got everything moved in. I don’t really want to dig through it, but I know I have to. I really need this scratching and knocking to stop. It’s probably mice or something, granted, I don’t remember seeing any holes in the box, but that’s the most likely scenario here. I’m pretty sure I saw the key in the vanity while I was moving stuff around. I’m going to go check and see about going through this dumb chest.

Okay, I found the key and got the trunk open. That was a challenge, the lock was pretty stuck. The chest is more than likely older than my mother, so it’s not really a surprise. What I found inside is a surprise, though. At first it wasn’t too interesting. Just souvenirs from vacations past, old yellowed photo albums, some empty jewelry boxes, and no signs of any rodents. It was when one of those jewelry boxes fell out of my hand and onto the bottom that I started to get curious. Instead of the thunk I expected, it let out a hollow knock, much like the knock I’ve been hearing every night. I felt around the edges and found a little lip that allowed me to lift a false bottom out. Inside, well, that’s what I’m worried about. Inside I found five different dresses, all belonging to little girls. They were old, perhaps from the 1950s, all different, a blue pinafore dress, a green one with white lace trim, but each one with what appears to be dried blood splattered across them. Just as unsettling, each one has a lock of hair attached, they are tied with ribbons that match the dresses, some blonde, some brown, some curly, some straight. Beneath them was an old folder, I opened it and several loose pieces of paper fluttered out. I sat down the folder and picked them up. They were newspaper clippings, each one bearing the smiling school picture of a little girl. I read the articles, each of the girls went missing between 1955 and 1967. Here is one of them:

LOCAL GIRL MISSING, NO LEADS

Police are looking for leads on missing girl, Lillian Brown. Lillian is the youngest of four children born to Charles and Rose Brown of Virginia Road. The missing girl is a second-grader with dark brown hair and brown is 44 inches tall, weighs 53 pounds, she is a top student at Valley Hill Elementary and has received awards for perfect attendance in Sunday school at St. Victors Roman Catholic Church.

According to her mother, Lillian is high-strung. “My daughter is a nervous child. Someone would probably have to kill her to keep her quiet. I am the only one who can calm her down.” She is begging for her daughter’s return, despite her fear of the worst On the evening of June 4th, Lillian disappeared. She was playing in the front yard of her family home on Virginia Road. She was last seen wearing a blue pinafore dress, her brown hair in pigtails. If you have any information that may lead to locating this missing child, please contact Law Enforcement.

Now, I’m not sure exactly what I should do at this point. I put the dresses and folder back into the chest so Amy doesn’t bother with them when she gets home. I’m at a loss, what the hell do I do? I’m hearing the scratching and knocking coming from my room, even footsteps, I refuse to even walk back there at this point, even though it is just my imagination. I’ve tried calling Brant, but he hasn’t answered. I’m just a bit freaked out. Why the hell did my sweet white haired grandmother have bloody dresses tucked away in a cedar chest?

I was relieved when my phone finally rang, it was Brant. He promised he would make it to the house by 7 PM. I cringed, I wish it could be sooner, but I knew that was the most reasonable time. He lived nearly an hour away in the city, the traffic alone would delay him. Feeling resigned, I gathered my computer and a strong cup of coffee, determined to spend my afternoon on the back porch listening to the birds chirp and the bees buzz while I crunched some numbers for work. For the first time, I partially wished I had worked at the company rather than from home. I settled in, thankful to put a closed door between me and my imaginary sounds of scratching and knocking.

Checking the clock, I stretched, enjoying the warm sun that splattered down through the heavy branches of the trees covering the porch. I managed to finish my work, and now it was time to get Amy from the bus stop. I’d decided I would convince her to spend the afternoon outside, with promises of ice cream and pizza when Brant arrived. I made my way down the short meandering driveway just in time to see the bus approach. The brakes making the familiar screech as the flashing stop sign extended from the side. Amy bolted across the road, plowing into me with a tight hug. Smiling up at me, her grin interrupted by missing teeth.

“Mama, I got a star card today! I was super helpful during math class!” she said.

I grinned warmly at her, I have to give her credit, she always made me feel calm.

“That’s amazing princess!” I said and I took her hand. “Let’s go put on some play clothes, we’re going to play outside. Brant is going to be coming over and spending the weekend with us, but first I want to play in the yard.”

Amy jumped, giggling. She has always liked when Brant would come for an extended visit, being that her father left when she was only a baby, she looked to him as her dad. She released my hand and ran up the driveway, excited to go change her clothes. I followed behind, unable to help the smile that put itself on my face. I heard the familiar rumble of the sliding glass door on its tracks, I picked up my pace to follow Amy inside, a slight unease finding the pit of my stomach.

Inside, Amy ran straight for her room, announcing that she was going to be putting on shorts. I glanced around, nothing was any different than it had been when I first secluded myself on the porch. I went to the fridge and pulled out some grapes and apples — it would be a bit before Brant and the pizza arrived. I opened the cupboard and grabbed two water bottles as well, filling them at the sink. Arranging the fruit on a small tray, I managed to balance the bottles and plate well enough to get them through the door without dropping anything. Setting them down, I caught a flash of blue out of the corner of my eye, matched with chiming giggles. I spun around, peering from behind a bush, I saw the form of a little girl. Amy must have snuck past me in the kitchen and made her way outside. “Come on out Amy, I’ve got a snack here for you.” I wasn’t prepared when the little girl stood up, it wasn’t Amy. The girl’s cherubic face was framed by soft brown curls, her impossibly green eyes twinkling at me, her blue pinafore dress standing out against the green of the holly bush.

I stepped backwards, my feet and legs tangling in the power cord for my laptop. I fell backwards landing hard on my backside, my hands scraping against the concrete as I tried to break the fall. Looking back up, the girl was gone. My heart leapt to my throat as I scrambled to my feet, lurching through the open glass door. Inside I heard giggling, not just Amy’s giggling, but what sounded like several girls giggling. Ignoring my protesting behind and skinned hands, I closed the distance to Amy’s room much faster than I thought possible. Stepping through the door I saw Amy, she was sitting on the floor, Barbies sprawled around her.

“Amy, what are you doing? I thought you were changing,” I said.

She looked up at me, surprised.

“Sorry Mama. Claire brought some friends with her today, they already had my Barbies out. I wanted to play with them.”

“Well, that was nice of Claire, but we are going to be outside. So get your shorts on and let’s go.” I tried to keep the panic that was creeping across my mind from showing. Amy dropped her doll and quickly changed her clothes.

Back outside, Amy cheerfully munched on an apple as she told me about Claire’s friends. I plastered a smile across my face and listened intently, my worry trying to spill over. She said they were Sarah, Janie, and Brooke, all roughly her age. She said they all wore pretty dresses just like her Grandma wore in old family pictures. I thought I was going to choke on a grape as she told me all about her new “friends.” Those names were unbearably familiar. They matched the articles I’d come across. This couldn’t be happening. I always liked watching scary movies, and things like Supernatural, but those were FAKE. That’s why they were so interesting, nothing like that could ever happen in the realm of reality. I have always been a firm skeptic, nothing has ever made me consider otherwise. At least not until Amy started telling me about her friends. Without a warning, Amy jumped from her seat nearly shouting that she was going to go play. She picked up a ball and started to take off, barely acknowledging my warnings to stay where I could see her.

I got back up, looking to the door, I needed to look back over those articles. I nearly felt like crying at the thought of going back inside. Stop being a child and go get those stupid papers. I pulled the door aside and ran. I ran to my bedroom and nearly slid across the floor to the cedar chest. I hadn’t put the false bottom back, and the folder sat directly on top of the pile. Snatching the folder, I ran back outside, forcefully pulling the sliding glass door shut behind me. Once my breathing settled to its normal pattern, I glanced around, catching sight of Amy sitting under a large oak tree, tossing her ball in the air.

I settled back to my chair, opening the folder on the table in front of me. I looked at the articles one by one. Janie Mathers, age 7, May 1955. Lillian Brown, age 7, June 1959. Sarah Waltz, age 8, September 1960. Brooke Nagy, age 6, July 1964. Virginia Bitzer, age 5, December 1967. But there was no Claire. One item from the articles caught my attention, one thing that had linked these girls to my family. In three of the articles, a police officer was named. The officer in question was Dennis Bowe, my uncle. I remember my mother telling me about his being on the force, the times he would catch her out past curfew, or once smoking pot behind the skating rink with her boyfriend.

I looked to my phone, the chances of actually talking to Uncle Dennis were slim. He was 76 and was suffering from stage 4 lung cancer. I know Aunt Judy said it was a rare day he even made it out of bed, let alone talked to much of anyone. He was 16 when the first girl went missing. If anything, he could possibly know something, chances are he would know everything. I decided to try it.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Aunt Judy, it’s Sammie.”

“Oh, hi honey! How are you and little Amy?”

We covered the normal family pleasantries for a few minutes, biting my lip, I broached the subject of speaking with Uncle Dennis.

“Aunt Judy, I was wondering, is it possible for me to talk to Uncle Dennis? I found some stuff here at the house I kind of wanted to talk to him about.”

“Oh, honey, I wish it were. He’s not talking, even with his oxygen, getting out not more than a few faint words.”

My brow furrowed, damn. I finished out the phone call, wishing her the best and promising prayers and good thoughts for my Uncle. I decided that once Brant got there, I was going to the basement. There are still lots of boxes down there, maybe I could find something else. In the meantime, I decided to call my mother, maybe she could fill in some details.

My conversation with my mother actually caused a bit more concern than I had hoped. She remembered some of the girls, they were her age. She was confused as to why I was asking about them to begin with. I decided not to mention the dresses, just the articles that I’d found. She vaguely remembered her brother working on some of the cases and my grandmother watching over her very closely. She couldn’t fill in many more holes, she assured me my Gram probably kept the articles because she had followed the cases as closely as she could, after all, she had a daughter the same age. It was when I asked about Claire, that she got upset.

“Why in the world would you ask about Claire?” she asked.

“Mom, who was she?”

“She was my cousin…they found her on the farm. She hanged herself from the rope swing. It was an accident. I have to go. Your father needs help cutting the grass.” With that she hung up on me. My mom never hangs up on me. It’s usually a battle getting her off the phone. I stared blankly at my phone’s home screen. What the hell mom? I looked up to find Amy playing in the sandbox Brant had built for her last weekend. I walked over and started to play with her. I still had time before Brant would show up, and I didn’t want to go into the house just yet.

While helping Amy weave a crown from flowers she’d pulled from the yard, I heard the crunch of gravel in the driveway. Thank God! Brant was finally here. Amy took off towards the driveway, me following behind. Brant had a pizza in one hand and a bag full of all the necessary ingredients for sundaes in the other. He managed to convince me that we should go inside to eat. I begrudgingly followed. This part of the evening was quiet, normal even. I relished in the normalcy, as my day had been far too strange. Brant listened intently while Amy explained about her award from school, responding appropriately while she started to ramble about her new “friends,” occasionally sparing a glance at me and giving my thigh a squeeze when I started to look uncomfortable. We all pitched in cleaning up. Once the kitchen didn’t resemble a disaster, he offered to go to the basement and lug up the boxes while I got Amy into bed.

After several rounds of The Cat In The Hat, Amy snuggled up under her blankets, with her teddy bear Muffin hugged tightly to her chest. I had heard Brant marching up and down the steps, bringing up multiple boxes. As I stood in the doorway, my hand on the lightswitch, I hesitated. Couldn’t I just stand here and watch her sleep? Why in the world was this all happening? I didn’t want to dig through those boxes. With a sigh, I flicked the switch and made my way back down the hall. Brant was sitting on the floor, already pulling items out of the boxes.

“So, what exactly are we looking for sweetheart?” he asked me.

I grabbed the folder off of the kitchen counter where I’d left it when we came in, sparing a look at the cupboard where I kept the canister of iodized salt. I shook my head. Salt, like THAT will do anything. I handed the folder to him, giving him a brief explanation of what I’d found and that we needed to find anything that could relate to the articles and dresses or anything that would give some insight into Claire.

After an hour of digging, Brant found a clipping of Claire Bowe’s obituary, she had been 9-years-old. It was tucked inside of an old family album from the time my family still owned the farm at the bottom of the hill. A few pages back was an article about Claire’s death. She had been playing on a rope swing, and had decided to take the wooden plank seat off to swing from the rope itself. While she was swinging, she began to spin, her foot had become trapped between the ropes allowing the upper part to wrap around her neck and her unable to untangle herself. When she was found by her cousin — my mother — she was hanging lifeless, her neck broken. I shuddered. No wonder mom didn’t want to talk about Claire. She was only 6 when she found Claire. Claire was 9 when she died. There was a picture of a little girl with short blonde hair in jeans and a button down shirt smiling up, her arm around my mother. They were standing in front of the tree that held the rope swing. I closed the album, my stomach in knots.

We now knew who Claire was, but were no closer to finding out why the dresses and articles were there. Obviously, the dresses were evidence. Did Uncle Dennis have them during his investigations? How did they end up in the bottom of Grams trunk? Was Gram involved? Was Grandpap? My head was swimming. Brant gently took the album from my hands.

“Let’s go to bed,” he said. “We aren’t getting anywhere with this right now. We are both tired, you’ve had a long day being scared out of your mind, and I had a nasty day at work.”

I nodded numbly, allowing him to pull me to my feet.

“Promise you’ll stay in bed tonight,” I asked him. I could feel desperation seeping into my voice. “I would lose it if I woke up to that damn scratching and you weren’t next to me.”

Our normal sleeping arrangements entail his lying with me as long as he could handle my snoring, or my sleep apnea startled him, at which point he would make a bed on the couch and finish out the night there. Typically, this didn’t bother me, but tonight, I didn’t want to be alone, not for a moment.

“Of course,” he said and gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. “I won’t go anywhere.” Placated, I followed him to the room and after changing into pajamas, I crawled between the sheets, comforted by his arm across my shoulders. Somehow, I managed to fall asleep, despite straining to listen to every creak and groan the old house made around us.

CRASH.

I shot up, my eyes wide open. Brant was already out of bed, the baseball bat in his hands. “Stay here!” he hissed.

Of course, I was like every other moron you see in a horror film, the one you scream at the screen to just follow directions, I was just steps behind him in the hallway. He turned to the left, into the kitchen. He broke the silence with a growl, dropping the bat he doubled over grasping at his foot. The sliding glass door had been shattered, tiny shards of glass had exploded across the room. I hit the lights, Brant’s hands were holding his foot, blood dripping from between his fingers. The room was empty, looking behind me, so was the living room.

Rather than track blood through the house, Brant sat down on the kitchen floor where he stood, taking care to make sure no shards would jab him on the way down. I ran to the bathroom, gathering towels and the first aid kit. I glanced into Amy’s room. The kid was still asleep. How was she still asleep?! With my arms full, I ran back into the kitchen. I cleaned up Brant’s wounds and we cleaned up the glass. I improvised and duct taped trash bags over the door until we could go in the morning and get plywood to cover the entrance. By the time everything was done, the sun was climbing over the horizon. We decided we would take Amy to my mom’s house and get what we needed to temporarily repair the door. After the repairs, I planned to go see Aunt Judy and Uncle Dennis. I hoped he could talk enough to tell me what he knew.

That’s where it leaves me. I called Aunt Judy, and she was a bit put out, but agreed for me to come over at 4 PM to talk to Uncle Dennis. She emphasized that I wouldn’t get much of anything out of him. I’m going to drive over there. I’ve put the dresses and everything else into a bag to take with me. I do plan on calling the police — I’ve only put it off this long because pretty much everyone involved is dead, so there’s not much for the police to do. Even if these girls have family left alive, they’ve waited between 50 and 60 years for news. Another day or two won’t make much difference.

I briefly considered the salt and burn idea, but being that this all seems to have been part of a crime, I don’t want to destroy any evidence. And I don’t think my mom was a kidnap victim — at least I hope not. The blue pinafore dress is the one that was on top of the pile in the chest. It also happens to be the dress I think I saw that girl behind the bush was wearing. There’s just so much to sift through. My preconceived notions about my family is being rocked. My Gram: the sweet white haired lunch lady, Eastern Star, and demure farm girl; Grandpap: a church deacon, a commissioner, a Mason, and business man; my Uncle: a veteran and upstanding police officer.

I want to piece together as much as I can before I do contact the police. Until it’s time to leave, I’m going to be sitting on the porch. I can’t deal with the footsteps and giggles ringing through the house. Even Brant, the staunch skeptic and logical one, has gotten perturbed. He’s going to go with me, moral support I guess. Here goes nothing.

Aunt Judy answered the door, the dismay plain on her face. I know she really didn’t want us there asking questions to a dying man, but I didn’t have much choice in the matter myself. I would most certainly prefer being home, in a quiet and uneventful house free of any spooks. She welcomed us in, showing us to the bedroom. Uncle Dennis was on his back, surrounded by white sheets and pillows. A hospice nurse was busy checking IV lines and adjusting his oxygen tubing. She offered a smile, glancing back at my uncle as she closed the door behind her. Brant and I looked at each other, unsure of how to proceed, it was my uncle who spoke up first…

“I know why you’re here,” he said. His voice was barely louder than a whisper. “You found the secret. The ones Mom and Dad tried to hide all those years ago.” He closed his eyes, deep struggling breaths between each small group of words. He managed to lift his hand, indicating we should have a seat. “This may take a while. Just listen, it’s time for the truth to come out.”

We sat, leaning close so we wouldn’t miss any of what he was saying.

“I remember when the first girl went missing, little Janie. She was such a sweet little thing, those blue eyes and black hair. She lived up the road a ways from the farm, friends with your Aunt Sherri,” he said. “Those two were like two peas in a pod, always together, always playing. When she went missing, my sister, she was devastated. Everyone searched and searched. My daddy, he led a few of the search parties. Mom, she made sure everyone had lemonade to drink and a bite to eat,” he paused to look out the window. “But we never did find anything, but that was the point. Daddy made sure of it. A year or two later, Daddy took me and my brother Art with him on one of his long camping trips to Alaska. That was when we found out. It was Daddy. We were in Alaska, hunting big game. We came across this little inuit girl, Buniq, I will never forget that little girl as long as I still have breath. What daddy did to that little girl is something I will never forget. The blood, the screams, the cries. After burying the body, we left Alaska and came back home. That was when we found out Mom knew, she wanted to hear every detail of the trip, taking special care to get every detail of Buniq’s last hours…” Uncle Dennis looked me and Brant. He took a wheezing breath and continued.

“Time went on, other girls disappeared, well I can’t say the girls just disappeared because we knew where they were. Me, daddy, Art, and Mom. Each girl sweeter than the last, at least until Claire. That was Art, he got impatient. Mom warned him, Never family. Your mom found her. She found Art with her. If not for Daddy, Art would have hurt your mom too since she caught him. That was the day Art went missing too, but I know you haven’t heard of him. No one speaks about him. As far as the rest of the family knows, Art was the monster. He hurt Claire and took off. He didn’t, Daddy and I took care of him, Mom helped. Just another missing person to add to the files.”

I stifled a gasp.

“Joining the police force helped keep everything quiet,” he continued over me. “A little less work on covering things up when they happened, evidence went missing all the time back then. I didn’t mind helping it on its way, especially because I wanted to keep up with the family hobby.” He hacked and wheezed. I’m certain my eyes were the size of silver dollars, my stomach sick, bile burning the back of my throat. “It all stopped when Daddy died though. The last girl, Virginia…we almost got caught with her. One of my buddies stopped by the farm unannounced, and Daddy slit her throat before we got to do anything. We couldn’t have her screaming. He was madder than hell until he went on another trip, this time to Florida to visit family. He came back a much happier man. But when he had his accident, we all lost it. Neither mom nor I wanted to continue without him. I quit the force and joined the army. Mom built the new house and started working at the elementary school cafeteria. Life went on. I knew Mom kept those dresses. My son was supposed to take the cedar chest with him when he went to the house before you moved in…. He took the wrong one.” He closed his eyes, looking peaceful, the whole idea of his feeling peaceful was abhorrent to me. “Now you know. Go home, call the police. Tell them the girls and Art are buried behind the barn. I don’t know about the ones Daddy had done before that or when he traveled. I can at least give the families here some peace.”

I stood shakily, trying my hardest to keep from throwing up across the room. I couldn’t believe what I had heard. How could my family have done something like that? I faltered when I tried to walk towards the door, but Brant was there to steady me. His hand was on my shoulder as we approached the door. I reached for the door handle and that was when we heard it. A small giggle. I froze, ice running through my veins as that one small giggle turned into a cacophony of ringing giggles. Brant reached past me, opening the door and nearly shoving me out as the room grew brighter. He slammed the door and we rushed to leave the house, leaving a flustered Aunt Judy and confused hospice nurse in our wake. We drove in silence, neither sure what to say. My phone repeatedly pierced the silence, but I was too numb to even acknowledge it.

We pulled up to the house and just sat in the car. I couldn’t help it, I just started bawling. Those poor children. The horrible things that they endured. I just shook and sobbed, Brant reached over and pulled me to him, his hand brushing my hair muttering nonsense to soothe me. Soon my sobs subsided to hiccups and I allowed Brant to lead me to the house, even though I was hesitant to enter. This house always held such happy memories for me. Gram taught me to make pancakes, we played monopoly at the kitchen table. I remembered the popsicles that were always hidden away for me. Now I could only look at the house and the horrors my grandmother tried to hide in its walls. Was she rightfully haunted by the knocking and scratching? Is that why she so often would call my mother begging for me to spend the weekends? Is that why she’d allowed my cousin to move in when he and his parents had problems? Walking through the door, the house felt empty — empty in a way I can hardly describe. Brant led me to the bedroom and situated me in bed. I didn’t protest, not once. He perched himself on my rocking chair across the room, keeping a concerned eye on me. Thankfully, I slept. Nothing but a blissful blank sleep.

I was woken by harsh whispers coming from the other end of the house, I gingerly climbed out of bed. Judging by the light, it was morning. I saw Amy sitting in her room, playing with her dolls and talking to Claire. I inched closer to the kitchen and recognized the voices as Brant and my mother.

“I’m sorry he died, but we didn’t have anything to do with it. The man was sick, wasn’t he?” Brant said.

“Yes, but he was okay when you got there! When they went in after you left, he was gone!” my mom said.

“He was breathing when we walked out the door.”

“Walked? Judy said you two nearly ran! What the hell happened?”

I stepped out of the hallway and into the kitchen, both of them went quiet.

“I’ll tell you what happened,” I said, glaring at my mom. “Our family is fucking sick! And you knew it! My grandparents were murderers and pedophiles, same with Uncle Dennis and Art.” My voice was shaking, for the first time I felt anger instead of feeling sick. “And you knew! You found Art with Claire and lied!”

“Sam, you don’t know what you’re talking bout, I…” she started, but I cut her off.

“Uncle Dennis told us everything. He told us about all of the girls, he told us about becoming a police officer just to keep covering up all the disappearances. He told us about Art. He came clean before he died. And it wasn’t the cancer that got him, it was all of those little girls, all of those children he helped torture.” My hand slammed down on the kitchen counter as my mother stared at me in shock. “I know what happened now. You should leave, I’m going to be calling the police now, they will want to talk to you. I’ll make sure to give them your number and address.”

Without a word, my mother was out the door like the demons of hell were behind her. It was then that I noticed all of the papers strewn across the table and the open laptop. Brant hadn’t slept, he instead went through the boxes in the living room and started searching. He matched up at least 15 disappearances with various family vacations. He even found an old article about Baniq’s disappearance as well. He showed me every piece of information he found. It was that moment that I realized that I was beyond lucky to have him, I would never have been able to do the research that he’d done in just 12 hours. We spoke quietly and decided it was time to call the police.

Once the police arrived we showed them everything and relayed the deathbed confession my uncle had given to us the day before. We didn’t mention how we found the dresses or what we saw as Uncle Dennis had died. The police sent several officers and a forensics team down to the farm, a few others were sent to search the property belonging to my house and the big house. Once the police gave us the clear, I packed some bags for Amy and myself, we were going to stay at Brant’s until the police were finished with anything they needed to do at the house. Amy asked if Claire could come with us. I told her yes.

So that is the nightmare I’ve found myself in. I’m here hiding out in Brant’s bedroom, I can hear him and Amy playing video games in the other room. I’m so grateful for the time to myself to sort everything out. I’m not sure what is going to happen with the police investigation or what is going to happen with Claire. I’m not even sure if I want to go back to that house, maybe sell it and buy a house with Brant, somewhere far from those horrible atrocities. We have some time to decide, Brant has said we can stay here as long as we need to, even after the police have finished with their investigation. I don’t even know when I will speak with my mom again. All in its own time, I guess.