It’s Not Just the Dark

If she squinted and imagined nightmares, the house would have looked haunted. With eyes wide open and her darker dreams tucked away, it was just a big gray building adrift in a sea of trees. Charity Barnes opened the rental car door in a cloud of dust she’d trailed in from the gravel road and dirt driveway. Either the person who supposedly lived here received her texts or they hadn’t. There was no answer, so her next move was an unannounced visit.

Charity climbed two stone steps to a weather-beaten door. She opted for the rusty gargoyle-headed knocker that squeaked more than it knocked. She half expected there to be no answer. Because of this, she wondered how many snakes would turn up if she tried to walk through the knee-high dead weeds around to the back of the house.

As she waited, she cursed Jason Biggs for the thousandth time for this assignment. He was the worst boss she’d ever had. A dozen unsolved murders or missing persons waited within a two-mile radius of the Cold Case Inc. offices in Indy. So why here? Because Jason fancied himself a country boy, for one thing. Secret sins of reclusive farmers and deadbeats who lived hard-scrabble lives up close to nature (his words) were more compelling than tweaked-out bums killing each other in urban drug-addled stupors.

The door swung noiselessly open. Nothing but dark inside to her sun-drenched eyes. The smell of moldering, somehow exotic leaves drifted out into the sunlight. It reminded her of something her mother had called potpourri, but her father had called yard waste.

“You are not expected,” a male voice came from behind the door.

“No,” she answered. “That is true. I’m Charity Barnes from Cold Case Inc. I sent you some emails and texts explaining my project. I just wanted a few minutes to talk.”

Henry Grayson stepped around the door, looking only slightly older than she expected. He was taller than Charity, slim, wearing jeans faded to near transparency, a long-sleeve black Duluth tee shirt, and a pair of moccasins that didn’t come from Walmart.

“Since there was no response, one might assume there is no interest.” He stepped back and began closing the door.

“Mr. Grayson, please. The last thing I want to do is bother you in any way. But I have an assignment—not that you should care about that; it’s just that you are the only person I can find who might remember something about the disappearance of Marie Simpson. I need to write a few paragraphs from a local perspective. I won’t mention your name. Please?” She omitted that she had been told to get this story or clean out her desk by the end of the week.

“People have moved on from all of that. I see no reason to bring it back up.”

“My job is writing about interesting things. Whatever became of Marie Simpson, even if we never find out anything for sure, is extremely interesting. I’d like to think she would appreciate not being totally forgotten.”

Grayson paused, the door halfway closed.

“I know some people suspected you of having something to do with Marie’s disappearance,” Charity added. “I also know there was never any evidence of that whatsoever. But you did know her, if I have my facts straight. Could I just maybe hear a little of your side of the story?”

“My side.”

“Your opinion or impressions. Just tell me what you think of the whole thing. I think something is fishy, so to speak. Not with you, but with the community moving past it all so quickly.”

“My side,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

Grayson sighed and pulled the door fully open. “Abandon all hope…as they say.”

Charity stepped across the threshold. “Duly noted.”

Dark, varnished hardwood floors. Walls plaster, not drywall. Ornate light fixtures suspended from the ceiling in the foyer, front sitting room, and a library she could see through walnut-framed French doors. Oriental carpet runners in the walkways. T.C. Steele landscapes and still lifes hung in ornate frames, somehow glowing from within like all his work.

“Water, coffee?” he asked.

“No, thank you.”

Grayson sat down in a straight-backed chair facing her. “Cold Case Inc.?”

“I know. It’s cheesy. We publish articles in weekly free newspapers and online in our web magazines. We’re not Harper’s or The New Yorker. But people really like the cold case angles.”

“I imagine they enjoy a hint of resolution,” Grayson said. “Unfortunate mysteries with no evidence of motive or foul play might be less than compelling.”

“On the contrary,” Charity objected. “Those are the very best ones.”

“So be it. Tell me what you think happened.”

Charity took her steno pad from her purse and flipped to the page titled “Marie Simpson.” “In June of 2019, Marie Simpson and her family came to Martin County for their annual summer woodsy cabin vacation. It was Marie, sixteen years old; her brother Jake, eleven; with Gustave, the father; and Anastasia, the mother.”

Grayson said nothing, which Charity took as confirmation she was on track so far.

Charity continued. “That cabin, owned by Ezekiel Bartlett, is one half mile west of here—Persimmon Ridge, I believe. On June 14, Marie was reported missing to the local sheriff at 10:45 PM. Marie had gone hiking with her brother right after lunch. Jake Simpson returned alone to the cabin around 3:00 PM. He said Marie had insisted on exploring a cave they’d found near the site of an abandoned quarry—Gabriel Creek Quarry. Jake begged her not to go into the cave. He was deathly afraid of them. He told the police that she called him a baby and that she just wanted to try out her new flashlight, which was the last thing she said before disappearing into the cave.” Charity flipped her pages. “I don’t have a name for the cave, assuming it has one.”

“It does not,” Grayson said.

“You know of this cave?”

“There are one hundred thirty named caves in Martin County, according to the state geological survey. I doubt that is even half of them, but yes, I know where you are talking about. I can show it to you if you like.”

“We can drive there? I could take pictures?”

“We can walk there, and yes, you can take as many pictures as you want.”

“I was warned not to wander about in the woods in this part of the world,” Charity said, taking the sheriff’s words to heart.

“The God of the backwoods is Private Property. People guard it as if a step over their line would kill them and everyone they know. But this place is safe. No one will bother us. Your backstory is missing a key point.”

“What is that?”

“Marie Simpson wasn’t longing to try out her new flashlight.”

“That did sound sort of lame.”

“I’ll not go into details of which I have no direct knowledge, but it was well known that Marie was afraid of her stepfather. I knew Gus Simpson from a distance. He was not a joyful person.”

“So you’re saying Marie might have been hiding or running, and maybe Jake was lying?”

“It wasn’t the flashlight.”

Charity’s phone vibrated in her pocket. “This is my boss,” she said. “I’ll just be a minute.” Using the map function on the way here had nearly drained her battery—five percent left. She reminded herself to get a more dependable car charger.

“Let me guess,” she answered from the front door steps. “You found somewhere even more off the grid for me to go.”

“Very funny.” Jason Biggs, editor, manager, son of whomever actually funded the Cold Case Inc. operation that, as far as she knew, never made money, did not like jokes. “I found some additional details about the Marie Simpson thing. Not directly having to do with her, but some ambiance you might be able to mix in.”

Jason Biggs cared less than nothing about the circumstances or details of Marie Simpson’s disappearance. He wanted a good story with as much shady stuff as possible. When Charity accepted this job, she assumed at least part of her work would involve finding answers to some of the cold cases. However, the ones that remained unsolved were just fine, and maybe even something that could be followed up on. Two stories for one—a win/win situation—and the creepier, the better.

“There are caves where you are,” Jason continued.

“I know.”

“Lots of them.”

“I get it, Jason. So what?”

“Secret societies is what. They apparently use the caves for some ritual or voodoo shit or whatever and have been for a while. Could be a new angle for your piece.”

“I’ll see what I can find out,” Charity said. “I need to go. I’m about to see where Marie disappeared.”

“Get pictures.”

“I will.”

“Don’t come back with nothing.”

“Got it.”

Charity ended the call and went back inside.

Grayson had changed into a sturdy-looking pair of cargo pants, hiking boots, and a blue flannel shirt. A light pack was strapped to his back.

“How long a walk is it?” Charity asked.

“Not far. You may want to go in.”

“To the cave?”

“Sure.”

“Not in a million years. I’ll get some shots of the entrance. You can tell me about Marie Simpson while we’re walking.”

“So be it. Let’s go.”

Grayson led her away from the house, down a gentle slope to a grassy clearing in the woods. Two paths led on, likely deer trails from what she remembered of summer camps when she was a kid. One path went due north of the clearing; the other angled off to the right. He ignored the northern path and started down the other.

“The road less taken?” Charity said, ducking below tree limbs and stepping around what looked like briar bushes. Her jeans and running shoes were good enough for some of this, but not a lot.

“Indeed. The path to the north is to be avoided. Put that in your story if you like.”

“Why?”

“It leads down to the Gabriel Creek Quarry. It was abandoned before any quality limestone could be extracted. They breached the water table, which is expected, but the water was bad. No one within ten miles of here uses water wells. It’s trucked in or rain harvested. The quarry is to be avoided.”

“Got it.” Charity made a mental note. Water.

The path led ever downward into a steep, narrow valley. They followed a dry creek bed winding through the narrow cleft. That continued for about fifteen minutes when their way was blocked by a lichen-encrusted cliff face pushing through the forest floor as if thrust up from an earthquake.

Grayson pointed to the ground. “This creek runs two or three feet deep when it rains for more than a day.”

Charity found this only mildly interesting. “Okay.”

Grayson pointed upstream from where they’d come, then down at the pebbled creek bed. “Where does the water go?”

“I don’t know. Where?”

He pointed at the base of the limestone cliff. “Look closer.”

She walked past him, her eyes on the ground as if looking for Easter eggs in the grass. The dry creek bed made a turn to the right just before its flow would splash up against a horizontal slab of stone. Just past the bend was a hole in the ground, about the diameter of a sidewalk manhole, maybe a bit smaller, pitch black within. The sight of it clenched her chest, stopped her breathing, and caused her legs to go limp. She landed hard on her butt in the middle of the creek bed. “No. Please no,” she wheezed.

Grayson sat down beside her, opened a bottle of water from his pack, and handed it to her. “It’s just a hole,” he said.

Charity took deep breaths and closed her eyes while her mind went back to the summer when she was ten years old and staying with her cousins on their farm for two weeks. One day, the dare from her raucous cousins was to crawl through a concrete culvert running under the county road in front of their house. Her cousins made it through, scratched and muddy, but Charity was terrified to try. Not for the first time, they teased her about being a soft city girl. They said maybe she’d rather catch a ride to Starbucks for a latte. Without a thought for anything bad that could happen, she pushed her fear of cramped, dark places aside and got down on her hands and knees in the weedy ditch. “No way!” the cousins shouted, cheering her on as she began crawling. Halfway through, the two boys blocked each end of the concrete pipe with rough, ragged planks. They laughed as the last shred of light disappeared. She panicked and froze, then scrambled blindly ahead, scraping her elbows and knees into bleeding, mud-caked wounds. After finally pounding her way out, the cousins were gone. Her Uncle Ross found her curled up and crying in the weeds by the side of the road. He carried her back to the house, beat the two boys until Aunt Janet threatened to call the police, and grounded the girl for the rest of the summer.

Charity’s phone buzzed in her pocket. It was Jason, with another new angle. She left it on speaker.

“Get a photo of where they found her purse in the cave. Get the old guy to take it if possible. I want you to be sitting there. No one else is doing anything like this. We may get that city journalistic award you keep talking about.”

“No,” Charity said. “I’ll shoot the entrance, which I’m looking at right now. That’s it.”

“Come on. Boy scout groups camp out in those caves. I Googled it. How bad can it be?”

“I’m done,” Charity said, then ended the call.

“Trouble?” Grayson asked.

“He wants me to go in there. He wants a pic of me sitting where Marie Simpson’s purse was found.”

Grayson stood up, stretched his back, and smiled up at what sky could be seen through the canopy of trees. “I thought as much. I can take you down there. Forty minutes round trip, if that. Easy steps and walking for the most part.”

“No way in hell.”

Grayson bent and sat back down on the smooth rocks of the creek bed. He tilted his head toward the hole in the earth. “Why do you suppose Marie Simpson went in there alone?”

“Running from something?” Charity guessed.

“Possibly.” He picked up a pebble and tossed it into the hole. “That,” he said, “is the safest place you can imagine. Hasn’t changed in a thousand years. As long as you don’t find yourself down there when a hard rain is happening up here, there is nothing to hurt you.”

“Bears,” Charity said, “and snakes, worms, bugs.”

“None of that. Nothing is alive down there. There is no light and there is nothing to eat. The air is a constant sixty-eight degrees, summer or winter.”

“It’s like a tomb.”

“There are places down there where you could easily play tennis if the floor was smoothed out a little. As I believe your colleague said, it is true that scout troops and hikers regularly camp in the caves.”

“In this one?” Charity asked.

“Not this one. This is private property. Marie was perhaps running but was technically trespassing when she ducked in there.”

“Who owns this land?”

“I do.”

“So, that’s why you’re a person of interest in the old news stories.”

“It is. My crime was that I did not post sufficient ‘No Trespassing’ signs, nor did I block this entrance to the cave.”

“This entrance?”