A Print in the Sand

Today, the newspaper headline read: Three years and the bodies have never been found. No one knows why the parents of these children agreed to visit the park that day. They knew a killer was on the loose, and yet, they took their children out of the safety of their houses anyway.

The young girl sometimes wondered what her life would have been like if her parents hadn’t decided randomly to go out that day. All she knew was that they had never returned. They were only assumed to be dead, after all. She remembers it vividly.

A Saturday morning in Summer. The sun shone brightly through the blinds on the East side of the young girl’s house. Her mother had just placed a plate of steaming eggs and hot bacon in front of her and she had just begun shoveling those eggs into her mouth when the television flicked on. Her mother had been in the middle of placing a similar plate in front of her brother and her father had been seated on his recliner, nursing a cup of steaming coffee, today’s paper in his other hand. Neither of them held the remote control, and both the young girl and her brother were too young to reach where their parents had left it. Still, the tv flicked on with a soft buzzing sound before turning to a seemingly random channel.

A video of a man, a mask over his face, and some sort of sharp object in his hand appeared on the screen. The young girl couldn’t understand what was happening as the man began swinging the object into people, sprays of red filling the screen. An uneasy feeling entered the girl’s chest, and she glanced at her parents. Both her mother and her father had frozen in place, eyes glued to the dripping red. The girl had a feeling that this was something she shouldn’t be watching, and yet, her parents hadn’t told her to look away or turn it off, or anything really. They just stood there, staring. On the screen, the red that had filled the square top to bottom, slowly began dripping away, revealing that masked man once again. The man pointed at the girl with one long finger before a series of beeps and static and electrical whines came from the small box until suddenly, the screen went black.

The girl looked to her mother; her small hands plastered around her small ears. Her mother blinked rapidly and looked down at the girl.

“Do you want to go to the park?” The girl’s mother said, suddenly.

“Yes, I hear there’s a new one just off Jefferson highway by that old ranch.” Her father spoke in a robotic monotone the girl had never heard from him before.

Without another word, the girl’s parents stood and moved to the door, pulling on shoes and hats. The girl tried to protest when her mother lifted her from her chair, her steaming eggs left barely touch on the space in front of her. Her father had moved to her brother, lifting the crying toddler from his seat and strolling casually toward the garage door. Her mother followed, the young girl sitting confused and frustrated in her arms.

The drive was long and slow. The young girl didn’t have an accurate concept of time, but she knew this was far too long to be sitting in a car just to visit a park. And she was hungry. Oh, so very hungry. Her brother was too. He had been crying and screaming in the seat beside her for far too long as well. Her parents, who were usually so responsive, hadn’t said a word, or even turned around. The girl knew this was unusual, but what could she do? Thankfully, her brother had finally worn himself out and was now sleeping soundly in his car seat, his head lulled heavily to one side.

The girl, too, was starting to get sleepy. Her eyes that had been soaking in every hill, every tree, and every road sign outside her window, were beginning to grow heavy. At some point, the girl felt the car begin to slow and she opened her eyes. Outside her window, a crowd of parents holding young children, most of which were screaming and crying, stood in several lines in and around a small play structure with one slide, a series of short stairs, and a small ladder. Beside the structure, an open-faced, wooden box sat a flat on the ground. Sand, a pale beige color, filled the box.

As the girl’s parents exited the car and moved to retrieve her and her brother, the girl noticed a small farmhouse on a short hill in the distance, tall stalks of golden corn waved gracefully in the breeze before it. The girl’s mother lifted her up, resting her gently on one hip while her father did the same with her brother. The girl thought it was strange to see the lines of people as her parent’s joined them. At the front of the lines, beside the sandbox, each parent slowly set down their child before smashing their faces into the sand and walking off into the corn, disappearing in waves of golden stalks. Their children left crying and screaming on the ground. Some of the children tried to follow, racing into the golden waves only to appear again several feet away from where they entered. The parents never returned.

The girl grew more and more anxious as her parents walked closer and closer to the wide sand pit. They were only three groups away when the girl was able to see clearly the faces of each parent who’d left screaming kids, pressed with alarming detail, into the sand. The girl’s heart thumped rapidly in her chest as an anxious fear overwhelmed her. She couldn’t let that happen. She had to help.

Wiggling out of her mother’s arms, the girl fell to the rocky ground. Her mother stared straight ahead, not noticing the girl’s fall. Standing up, the girl had to think quickly. Perhaps if she could find a stick or a rock, she could knock her mother upside her head and snap her out of this strange trance. The girl had seen this solution in a show she had watched once. It had to work.

The girl took off, short legs moving rapidly below her. She surveyed the ground. Small rocks and short twigs were everywhere, but none were large enough to serve her purpose. Then she remembered she had picked up an absurdly large stick on her last hike with her parents. Her mother had protested, but the girl was persistent and was finally allowed to place the overly large sick into the back of their SUV. The girl bolted to the car and fiddled with the handle. Her parents always locked it, but it seems that this time, they’d forgotten. The door opened after the girl’s second grunted pull, and she climbed in, crawling to the back where her stick was placed. It was still there. Hope filled the girl’s chest as she snatched the stick and, scooting out of the car, ran quickly back to her parents. Except, where were her parents?

Screaming along with the other abandoned children, her brother sat, eyes wet and face red, beside the sand box. A hollow dread replaced that flicker of hope in the girl’s chest as she slowly approached the sand. Printed in extensive detail in the fine sand were the faces of her mother and father.

The girl, now three years older, shuttered at the memory of that moment. Her heart heavy and aching in her chest. She rubbed at it. She had smacked that stick over the head of the next parent who’d bent to press their face into the sand. The parent had frozen in place before shooting up suddenly, rubbing the back of his head and looking around, confused. She had been so close to saving her parents. Once each remaining parent had been snapped out of their stupor, the authorities had been called and that old farmhouse and surrounding area had been searched extensively. No one was ever found, and no bodies were ever recorded. Perhaps one day, the girl will grow old and strong enough to pursue the mystery that had stolen her parents from her. But that day was not today.