The Missing Boy

It was a rainy, tepid morning, the day that Ralphie Alcott walked into my office wearing tattered clothing and hooded eyes. He had been missing then for over twenty-three years but at the time, he was just another man I felt needed a shower and shave in the worst way. He walked in, sat down without my asking him to and before I could say a word he had thrown down a slim black book. As he looked at me as if I knew what should happen next, I noticed something that looked like crumbs were littered throughout his thick, overgrown beard.

“Can I help you with something?”

When he spoke, his voice was cracked and haggard as if he smoked unfiltered cigarettes or didn’t use his voice much. By the smell and his temperament, I feared both suppositions were correct.

“You write an article recommending books. I would like you to recommend this one.”

I was taken aback, I have to admit. This simply wasn’t etiquette. I also have to admit I didn’t expect much from the slim volume resting on my wide executive desk.

“I recommend books that I find to be exceptional and have a unique underlying voice. It is entirely at my discretion.”

The man just stared. I was determined not to break the silence but after a full two minutes, It became apparent I was more uncomfortable with silence then him.

“Tell me why I should recommend this book? Has it received much acclaim?”

“This is the only copy.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle while he remained stone faced with perfect posture, looking for all the world like he had just emerged from the dump.

“What is your name by the way?”

No response. It felt as if he was staring into my soul. I had the ridiculous thought that he could read my thoughts. I was planning to end this little oddity and lifted my finger to call security when without emotion he said, “The Alcott family, including Senator Preston Alcott has been kidnapping children and adults since the turn of the 20th century. In this book you will find proof of that and much more. You may not believe it at first, but if you investigate you will glimpse true evil.”

I noticed that he spoke with an eloquence far beyond what his appearance indicated. Still, I felt it much more likely I was dealing with a man who was simply mentally ill. “Senator Alcott kidnapping children huh? And why should I believe this?”

“Because I have been investigating them my entire life.”

“Then why self-publish this book then hand it over to me to receive the credit?”

I thought I saw his eyes sparkle then.

“Because you can disseminate this to a wider audience. And I have read your articles and seen some of the public conflicts you’ve been involved in. You don’t back down. You seem to be a true journalist which are exceedingly rare now.”

So, he had done his research this disheveled stranger, I thought. I couldn’t help but be intrigued. He had piqued my interest, and I caught myself staring at the cover of the book, wanting to read It and determine if it was all garbled nonsense or something sensational as this man alluded to?

“Will you do this for me?”

I considered it. I only gave three recommendations each week, and I had already chosen my selections for Monday morning’s edition of the paper. Luckily, I had caught my editor banging an intern in the parking garage one evening outside the office. If I wanted to, I could put any old trash in my article.

He brought me out of my reverie when he spoke again.

“If you will not, I have to find someone else.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. I often think back to that moment when my life altered, when my curiosity overtook me and I took a chance on a homeless man with a self-published volume.

“Yes,” was all I said. At that he pushed himself up out of his chair and for the first time I noticed his stride was slightly off balance, an old injury perhaps that still haunted him.

“Ho-hold on please. How can I contact you? Can you give me your name and number please?” I was pleading.

His back was turned, and he was trudging away but I still heard his response. It’s something I am still here in my nightmares from time to time.

“No use. I will be dead by this time tomorrow.”

I called out once more, pleading for him to stop and for me to give me his name. He didn’t turn or pause. He walked right out of my office, and I never saw him again.

When I got home that night, I took a walk with my Rhodesian Ridgeback Cleetus then hopped in the shower. I dried off, sat down in my favorite chair in my living room with a glass of bourbon on ice. I pulled out the book that my nameless stranger had given me. The first two pages were simply blank. Then the third page titled Alcott In gothic bold lettering. I took a sip of bourbon and felt the comforting warmth cascade through me. I turned the page. Above the text was the first chapter or part titled Family. It went on to describe how the Alcott family came to set roots down in the then rural hill country town of Colburn, Texas. The Alcott’s who hailed from Great Britain were apparently wealthy before they arrived in Texas although their time in England was shrouded in mystery.

The family members going back four generations were listed on a large tree (hand drawn with considerable skill) in the first chapter. The family was full of the normal amount of ne’er do wells, burnouts, and golden children seen in every family although this one seemed especially competitive and ruthless. I noticed that this had to be from the point of view of someone who was an actual family member. The more I read the more I was convinced of this. The last sentence of what I assumed was part one of the book left me dumbstruck. It read My name is Ralphie Alcott, I have been missing for over twenty-three years and now that you know the real Alcott’s, I can show you what they’ve done.

The next page was titled Ceremony. I had long since forgotten my now watered down bourbon drink. I was enraptured by the book in my hands. I felt I was holding classified information and that at some point the print on the page would simply disappear and I would be left tired and confused. Instead, Ralphie described that his family had been involved in occult rituals with other elite members of a private group (cult) called the Order of Hecate. They believed that Hecate demanded sacrifice at the conclusion of elaborate rituals that involved everything from torture, sex, drug use, possession, seances, and savage fights to the death. The group used its power to kidnap prostitutes, drug addicts, and innocent immigrants for use in the sadistic rituals that took place in Colburn at the vast Alcott estate.

Ralphie claimed to have been present for these rituals and even witnessed full body apparitions appear and communicate with members of the Order of Hecate whether through possession, automatic writing, or actual speech. He explained that each ceremony was carried out with precision and fastidious detail. At the helm of these ceremonies was his father, who was then just the district attorney of Colburn County. He ruled both the Order of Hecate and his house as a mad tyrant, responsible for countless deaths, many of which Ralphie claimed to have witnessed.

That poor boy, I thought. I suddenly understood that Ralphie Alcott must have chosen to stay missing for as long as he did. He traded rags for riches to leave his evil family. An image of Preston Alcott on a podium orating with great passion about public health and immigration, appearing to all he world as a clean-cut, moderate who had America’s best interest at heart. He was a dark horse for the presidency in two years, according to CNN at least.

I continued reading without a notion of what time it was or the rumbling deep in my stomach. The last section of the book was titled Death. It described in detail where the bodies of the kidnapped, tortured, and defiled victims of the Alcott cult were buried. It also indicated that Alcott and the followers of the Order of Hecate tend to live longer than most human beings as a result of their covenant with the ancient god. Once they reach a certain age, however, they adopt alternative aliases that provide them with anonymity. This is of course sanctioned by high-ranking officials in government and the private sector. He indicated that if the Order of Hecate is not destroyed, many more individuals will be corrupted or killed behind a veil of power that is centuries old. Lastly, he indicated that if he should die, it was not to be taken as suicide. Ralphie Alcott had eluded his father and The Order for twenty-three years, but he knew as soon as this was published, he would be hunted and killed. He ended it by saying to anyone who reads this, “My hope lies in your hands.”

I finished reading as sunlight reached through the blinds in my living room. Luckily, it was Saturday. I found I had a numb backside and biting hunger. I also knew I had something particularly important to see to. I brewed a big pot of coffee which went into a cup I could take on the road and grabbed a protein bar on my way out. I was out the door and driving down the highway within twenty minutes of finishing Ralphie’s book. I sped through traffic and almost missed the turn off.

I pulled into a long private drive that led to two towering black iron gates. I drove up to the keypad but before I could press the call button, I heard a loud groan coming from just in front of my car. It was the gates opening. I looked around for a moment then drove through the gate. The rest of the meandering driveway that was bordered by tall pines on either side, standing sentinel in the mid-morning Texas heat. I ended up in front of a vast estate. I saw a golf course, tennis courts, over the top landscaping, naked baby statues arranged tastefully amongst the azaleas, tulips, and roses. To top it off there were gargoyles or what appeared to me as gargoyles sitting on the corners of the roofline.

A butler was already standing outside the door with his nose pointed ever so slightly skyward, letting me know where I was. When I walked up the stone steps, he only offered a curt "this way." Then I was off down several corridors, and everything was sparkling wood and the scent of freedom and peace. A right here then a left then a right then a long walk down the widest hallway I have ever seen. He stopped outside a door and seemed to freeze in time. I was unsure what to do which of course he sensed.

"Please, Senator Alcott is a busy man sir."

My heart jumped into my throat and began beating at a hummingbird’s pace. I opened the door and walked in.

"Ah Samuel, you’re early.”

I’m sure there is a version of this world in which Ralphie Alcott uncovered what The Order is and its doings throughout these many years. Unfortunately, when I pledged my life to Hecate many years ago and saw the rewards (assistant editor of a major media company at age 26 and soon to be editor) I also pledged to stamp out any fool who would stand in her way. To say the book should never have come into the world is a severe understatement. Poor Ralphie. His father and I watched it burn in the Senators study. As we watched it closely, sweating despite the A/C, I felt him clap me on the back. "Congratulations on the new job, Editor in Chief."

It’s late. The darkness envelopes us. We are many but joined as one in our great purpose. We stand naked, hands held in the courtyard of Alcott’s estate. Screams echo through the night, appealing to a stoic, uncaring full faced moon. The nameless faceless sacrifices are being bled. We will bathe in their blood and perform the rituals to summon the old gods. Hecate will lay us upon her bosom while the outside world remains as it should: deaf and dumb.

Ralphie Alcott was never found. There was a man identified and cremated as Peter Johnson. He died of an apparent suicide in a motel in the part of town where officers turn the other way in exchange for more stripes on their sleeve. There was one man, dirty and stinking who stood just outside of the circle of paramedics and police as they loaded Peter Johnson into the ambulance on a stretcher. No one paid much attention to him, just another homeless guy begging and taking up space. He staggered away, peering around and handling with care a small black book with a single name printed on the slim spine.