Chapter 4: The Search Party

I was frozen with fear, wanting to scream, but no sound came out.

My lips moved, but nothing escaped. I wanted to run, to hide, but my body was rooted in terror.

Luckily, the parking lot was in the center of town, and Ben’s scream had rattled the neighbors awake.

Porch lights snapped on up and down the block. Dogs barked, the quiet shattered as doors slammed open and people rushed out in slippers and bathrobes.

Soon, people came running.

Mrs. Ramirez in her Ohio State sweatshirt, Mr. Wilson clutching his battered Maglite, neighbors drawn out by the commotion. Mr. Wilson was first, flashlight in hand, his wife trailing behind. More neighbors gathered, eyes wide, voices overlapping.

"What’s wrong? What happened?"

Someone shook my shoulder, trying to pull words from me. I just stared, hands dirty, clutching Ben’s sneaker.

More and more people crowded the lot.

Some came with bats, others with hunting rifles, and more than one with just a cell phone gripped tight.

"It’s Ben! Ben is missing! We were just playing hide-and-seek—I heard a scream and then he was gone. There’s so much blood!"

The words tumbled out, voice breaking. Mrs. Ramirez gasped, covering her mouth. The old fire chief started barking orders.

Fog was everywhere; nothing could be seen clearly.

The mist pressed in, muffling sound, distorting shapes. People squinted into the gloom, calling Ben’s name.

Ben’s mom clutched the blood-soaked sneaker and fainted from crying.

Her knees buckled, and two neighbors caught her, lowering her to the curb as she sobbed.

Someone called the cops.

Sirens wailed in the distance, the night coming alive with red and blue flashes.

People talked at once—some said there were wild animals in the woods, others whispered about ghosts.

A man in a camo jacket muttered about coyotes. Mrs. Jensen from the Baptist church crossed herself, murmuring about evil spirits.

The town councilman eyed the long, winding blood trail leading to the woods.

He always wore a flag pin, always first to organize a search party. "I’ve lived here for decades and never heard of anything like this in the woods. Everyone, grab your flashlights, bats, crowbars—bring torches! Let’s go up there and look. A good kid can’t just vanish like that!"

He clapped his hands, voice trembling but determined. People nodded, steeling themselves.

"Yeah, we have to get him back!"

Nobody hesitated—around here, you looked out for your own.

Everyone spoke at once, voices full of fear and outrage.

I caught snatches—"He was just here!" "How could this happen?" "We need to call his parents!"

At that moment, old Mr. Hawkins dipped his finger in the blood, sniffed it, and said slowly,

He was the town’s unofficial historian, always telling stories about the woods. He looked grave as he wiped his hand on his jeans. "Don’t bring flashlights. Bring torches."

I was squeezed in the middle of the crowd, following them toward the woods.

I clung to someone’s jacket, shuffling with the others. The torches blazed, firelight casting huge, flickering shadows.

At first, the blood trail was just a line. The farther we went, the more blood there was. Soon, it pooled in the dirt.

My sneakers stuck in the mud, the metallic smell dizzying. Adults whispered, their voices barely above the wind.

Only then did I realize how much blood a human body could hold.

It seemed impossible, too much for a boy Ben’s size. My hands shook; I almost dropped the torch.

People whispered behind me:

"With this much blood, even if we find the kid, he won’t make it."

"So young... poor thing."

The sadness in their voices made my stomach twist.

"Mr. Hawkins said to bring torches—do you think it’s really a wild animal?"

A heavy silence. Someone muttered it didn’t feel right.

"To snatch a kid and disappear so fast—what kind of animal could do that? Something’s not right tonight. Look at this fog—I haven’t seen it this thick in years. Who knows what’s out there."

A cold wind rattled the branches. People glanced around, as if something was watching from the trees.

The more they talked, the more ominous it felt.

The adults clutched torches closer, feet dragging, voices dropping to anxious murmurs.

The group followed the blood trail all the way to the edge of the woods, but there was no sign of Ben.

The woods loomed, black and endless, trees creaking. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying Ben would be okay.

Finally, at the entrance of a cave, they found a pile of flesh and Ben’s bloodstained clothes.

No one spoke. Someone started to cry. The night felt colder, torchlight flickering across torn fabric and ruined innocence.

When my parents arrived, I was standing in the crowd, clutching a torch, scared out of my mind.

I saw them push through, wild-eyed, searching for me. Mom’s voice broke as she called my nickname.

Both were panting, clearly having rushed over. Dad’s shirt was buttoned wrong. Mom was still in her slippers. They grabbed me, relief and anger warring in their eyes.

My dad came up and kicked me hard.

The kick stung, but I saw in his eyes he was more scared than angry. He hugged me tight after, breath ragged.

"You little brat! Who told you to run around at night?"

His voice shook. He wiped his face, trying not to let anyone see he was crying.

My parents didn’t speak to the neighbors or ask about Ben. They just dragged me away from the woods.

No thanks to the search party, not even a glance at the shattered faces behind us. We moved fast, Mom muttering prayers.

At first they walked, then sped up, finally breaking into a run.

Our footsteps pounded the empty street, torches left behind, the sounds of crying and sirens fading into fog.

When we got home, they didn’t say a word. They packed up and drove away that night.

We left everything—dishes in the sink, homework on the table, photos still taped to the fridge.

Later, I heard the police searched the woods, but found nothing.

I overheard my parents whispering, shades drawn, voices hoarse. They never let me talk about that night.

I don’t know what happened after. I only know Dad kept sending money anonymously to Ben’s family—cash in blank cards, mailed from different cities, never signed.

I sat on the floor, half my face numb from Dad’s slap.

My cheek throbbed. Tears burned, but I wouldn’t let them fall. I stared at the faded carpet, fighting the urge to scream.

But suddenly, a memory surged up—hazy but sharp. The shadow, the wave, the feeling I was being called.

"Dad, the night Ben disappeared seven years ago, I also saw a black shadow waving at me."

Dad slapped me again. The blow startled me more than it hurt. He looked away, jaw clenched, like he hated himself for it.

"You still have the nerve to mention that? The one who should have died that night was you."

His words hung in the air, heavy and final. Silence pressed in, broken only by my mom’s sobs and that relentless tapping on the glass—like something out there was still waiting for me.