What Hides Beneath the Mud

The mudslide came down the river, crept over its edges and stretched its arms like octopus tendrils out into the neighborhoods. Singular streams, rolling mercury, traced the cracks in the center of the road, filling them with its precious collected items along the way.

A vile of medication in a pothole, a contact lens case snuggled into the yellow reflector – Ode to the champions of sight! The orange construction cone upside down in the ditch – a mud ice cream cone for those who liked to press the sweet chocolate treat down with their tongue before nibling the edges.

My bag filled quickly. The water trucks scheduled to hit our block tomorrow could not be put off. If we wanted to keep these things from hurting our beloved ocean life, they needed to be collected, sorted, tossed.

The squirt bottle seemed like a mediocre find. Rick had found a watch. Beautiful engraving on the back let us know it belonged to Eric. A gift from his beloved, Emily. We had told each other stories about them all day. Adding the items we found along the way to our characters’ tale. I joked as I pulled the incredibly intact glass bottle from the mud that it would contain a letter from Eric’s long-lost love. Someone Emily never knew about.

To my surprise, the bottle actually did contain a letter, held in with a cork. The cork had been sheared off so I could not remove it. The bottle looked old. The design reminded me of the Squirt from my childhood. Yellow on green glass with Squirt written in little red letters. I would check it when I got home. For now, it would be part of our garbage lore.

****

The cork crumbled when I twisted the wine opener through it. Dried bits of it dropped into the bottle and released the smell of mold and decay. Rick jumped back as though it was filled with smelling salt. I giggled at him.

“It’s not that bad. It’s just old,” I said. His eyes told a different story.

“Sorry. It reminds me of some places we visited when I was young. Sense of smell is a powerful trigger for memories, and that brought a rush of them. Feeble children, old ladies begging for bread, water, money. The rivers of waste running down the sides of the roads. Just… overwhelming,” he said.

I watched his aging face. He didn’t talk about his childhood much. I wanted to take note of what expression he wore when he spoke. The line between his brows was deep. His salt and pepper whiskered jaw pulsed. He ran his fingers through his dark hair, turned, went to the fridge, cracked a beer and sat at the table. I watched the gray hair at his temple’s pulse but did not ask any more questions.

I joined him and gently shook the cork from the bottle. When the tiny bits had all cascaded out, I used tweezers to pull out the letter.

The paper seemed almost damp. Tied with a piece of tiny blue thread. I grabbed scissors and snipped it.

Unrolling the scroll my heart began pounding against my chest. I held it before my face. Rick was watching me closely from across the table.

“Rick,” I whispered, “We need to call the police.”

******   

The letter was written in what appeared to be blood. The FBI’s best guess for the “pen” used was a shoelace plastic cap.

She gave us her name. That she was being held in a basement. She could hear a river nearby, but nothing else. She could only see about three feet out the window to the thick dense woods beyond. She hoped her letter would someday find enough water to carry it away.

Her name was Blaze. Blaze McKenzie.

For days after finding the bottle, I fell into an online rabbit hole. I could not leave it alone. She went missing in 1988 when she and a friend went to the mall. She went to the bathroom alone and was never seen again. She was only 14.

She was exactly my age.

The FBI demanded we keep our finding a secret to avoid alerting the suspect. All I wanted was to follow the investigation, but because I was told I was not allowed to know anything, I started my own.

“Why can’t you just leave it alone?” Rick asked one night in bed, rolling over he pulled my fifty-year-old hips into a spoon. He brushed my blond hair off his face and whispered into my ear. “It’s not like you knew the girl.”

I took a moment to ponder my response. Most men weren’t into true crime and couldn’t grasp why women were. I needed him to understand. I was part of a generation that lived through different times.

“You said ‘knew,’” I finally answered. “Like you know she is dead. As a woman, I tend to put myself into these victims’ places. And while I am there, I ask, ‘What would I have done differently? What would I leave behind as a clue if I was taken? Would I be able to stand captivity? What efforts would I make to escape? How long before I gave up?’ And unlike most, I don’t assume she is dead. I assume she is alive and still suffering. So… I want to help. Just in case.”

I felt him nod against my neck and back before sighing and rolling away.

I spent the night dreaming about being in a cold, damp basement with no way out, and woke in sweaty terror to a bright, cheery morning, my freedom intact.

*****   

Rick was at the table when I peeled myself from my bed. He didn’t always stay over, but it was becoming more frequent.

Scrolling through his phone, he methodically sipped his coffee and ate toast.

“I was thinking of getting a map today and mapping out where the mudslide started and ended along the river. That might help narrow down the area,” I said.

Rick sighed with annoyance.

“Good morning to you too,” he grumbled.

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry,” I said. “She’s heavy on my heart.”

“Obviously.”

He went back to his phone, finished breakfast and stood to clear his spot. His suit looked extra pressed this morning. He leaned in for a kiss and grabbed my chin with his empty hand.

“This isn’t good for you. You need to let the FBI do their thing and hope for the best. Obsessing over this isn’t going to help anyone. Especially not that girl,” he said.

“Blaze,” I followed. “Her name is Blaze. And I know you’re right, but I refuse to shut off my empathy. No matter how difficult that is for you.”

A scowl formed on his face. He slammed his dishes in the sink, turned and left. I was left staring at the door wondering what I had done to upset him so much.

*****   

I was one month in before I found it.

My map had been made. The properties color coded. Most of the owners listed, including previous ones who fit the timeline. I had sleuthed on social media to find those still living and those passed. I searched birth and death records to find descendants. There were a few mystery property owners, but I hadn’t given up.

The bang on the door made me jump. A UPS package lay on my welcome mat. I took it inside and pulled open the bubble wrapped package with my teeth. Inside was a manila envelope from the county.

Pulling the thick stack of paper out felt like removing life changing knowledge from the chains of captivity. It was the birth of knowledge. The kindling of a fire.

It was the county recorded plans of the insides of homes in the area on my map. They showed the home layouts submitted to the county for building approval. Some went back as far as the 1920s. Attached to those were construction applications for improvements.  This stack would show the ones with basements.

There were 100 miles along the river affected by the mudslide. Property sizes ranged from clusters of houses on quarter acres lots, to 10-acre farms. Total properties to review, 144.

There were only two with recorded basements.

One of them was a property I had not been able to find any information on. It was owned by a corporation. The corporation that had no information online except the Tax ID. Just a phantom business with no name attached.

The other was a small farmhouse that was on a property that did not fit Blaze’s description. There were no woods near the home. The lot had been cleared of all trees when the house was built in the 1950s.

The FBI had to know this, right? I cannot be the only one to figure out where she was likely held? Had they found this too and were not able to find her because the mudslide had buried the houses?

I desperately wanted to take Rick with me to go look at the old farmhouse, but I had not talked to him about what I was doing. He seemed so angry at me for just thinking and talking about it. How could I tell him I had gone so far as to spend money buying plans from the county records office?

*****    

I took the next day off work.

My little Nissan Rogue had 4-wheel drive. I figured I would drive up to the area and see if I could access the house. FEMA and emergency crews had worked tirelessly to clear roads and dig out those affected. Yesterday they announced the “all clear”.  

The sky was a deep blue when I turned onto the highway. The clouds reminded me of Andy’s wall in Toy Story. All childlike art and innocent wonder.

I sent a text to Rick when I stopped for gas. I told him if I went missing, to tell the authorities to check the property owned by MineStar Corp. I was going there to see if it could possibly match the description of the property Blaze slipped in the bottle.

Then I silenced my phone. I didn’t want to hear a lecture from him.

*****  

It took 2 hours to arrive at the address. I stopped at the end of the driveway. The deeply rutted road up to the house was canopied by old maples. They hung down low enough to rub their leaves over my windshield, Mother Maple running her loving hands across its cheek.

I rolled up to the house slowly. It was a shuttered tight classic old farmhouse. Morning glory grew up the porch posts and across the roof. Peeling paint lay in a mote around the entire house. A fairy circle of lead paint protection.

Stepping onto the porch, I saw muddy footprints. From what I could tell, they approached the door, stood in front of it for a while, walked to the window and back down the stairs. I looked at them closely and assumed it was emergency services checking on the property, and, upon finding the house intact and no one there, they left.

I knocked.

The sound echoed loudly through the empty house inside. I listened closely for footsteps, television, radio, basically anything. I could hear nothing but silence, the rushing of the river, and the birds in the trees.

Against my better judgement, I checked the door handle. Ancient in shape, it turned farther than expected but refused to release the latch. I tried pushing it further to the left and right but it never moved.

Stepping back from the door, I sighed and ran my fingers along the door frame. I knew it was a longshot that an abandoned house would have a hidden key, but I checked anyway.

I walked off the porch and around the side of the house. It was almost completely covered by a huge climbing rose that smelled incredibly sweet. The contrast in smells of mud and damp and sweetness was almost too much.

The backyard was… gone. Left in its place was a plain of mud. It had coasted right up to within 4 feet of the backdoor, and then stopped and receded. The tree stumps still left looked like guards lined up to protect the queen. The river beyond it, still muddy, was showing signs of clearing and returning to normal.

“Hello?” I shouted. My voice shook in a way I had not expected. I was more afraid than I realized. “Hello?” I repeated as I stepped onto the back porch. I stared momentarily at a rocking chair near the door. It looked new and intact. Too new for the state of the house. I touched the chair’s paint, and it was smooth. It was like it had never seen any weather, much less the storm that brough chaos to our region.

I stepped forward and peeked through the window. The kitchen was small and empty. It looked exactly as I expected it to look. Old cupboards cradled the 1950s stove and refrigerator. Dust coated the floor in the distance, but… not the counters. I heard the fridge start up through the window. Its old motor rumbling away.

The house looked completely abandoned, but the fridge was still running?

Again, I backed away from the door and looked around at the porch. The floor was scuffed and worn with age. Paint peeled. The shutters hung crooked. I couldn’t help but think this would be a perfect place to film a horror movie.

I stepped down from the porch and examined the windows in the foundation of the house. If Blaze was at THIS house at one time, she would have thrown that bottle out one of those windows.

There were three tiny windows that ran along the back of the house. I looked down to try and peer into the first. I could not see anything. It was either pitch black, or something was over the window.

I moved to the second one. It was no longer black and inside I could see a table. A glass of water sat on it, clean water, but untouched. I tried to look beyond the table but could not see any other furniture or doors or light.

I got to the third window. This one was broken. Shattered in one small corner. I carefully got down on my hands and knees, peering, hoping to be able to see inside. Immediately a filthy blackened hand shot out and grabbed my arm. In a fight or flight response, movements out of my control, I shot backwards and screamed.

“Oh my God! Oh my God!” I repeated as I quickly crawled back over to the window. Two blue eyes peered out at me. “Blaze??” I yelled. She only nodded, and then began to cry.

I stood then and immediately stomped up to the backdoor and kicked it in. The aged frame gave way with little effort.

It took me mere seconds to find the locked staircase door. The keys hung next to it. I fumbled through a few keys before finding the one that opened the door.  

Running as quickly as I could with keys in hand, I flew down the stairs. The stench hit me and threw me backwards. It was the same smell that came from the bottle when I opened it. I gaged and my eyes began to water.

I turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs and almost screamed at the horror before my eyes. The now 50-year-old Blaze was nearly black with filth. Her blond hair had been shaved off. Her right hand was chained to a bed. The left hand, the thumb dangling broken, had escaped its chain. I forced back tears realizing that was how she had grabbed me. She had broken her hand to get it out, knowing I was her only hope.

I ran to her, repeating “I got you. You’re going to be ok.” The key to her cuffs was easy to identify and I released her.

“I am going for help!” I said, but as I was turning to run upstairs, I heard footsteps coming down.

Terrified, I held my hand to my lips urging Blaze to “shhhh!” signaled her back to her room, and I hid behind the door.

When the person came around the door I almost cried with relief. “Oh my God, Rick. I am so glad to see you,” I said as I fell into his arms. “I am so glad you’re here.” I pulled back and looked into his face, tears still in my eyes.

But his face wasn’t his face. It was contorted and twisted and angry.

“Wait… how did YOU know where I was?” I stammered.

“I told you to leave it alone. I told you to let the FBI deal with it. If you had listened, we would not be in this mess,” he said flatly.

“M-Mess?” I stammered again.

He grabbed me by the back of my hair. “I FINALLY found a place to put this bitch,” he pointed at the door to the room Blaze was in, “and YOU have to go and FIND HER!”

“Wait, wait,” I whimpered as I tried to free his hand from my hair. I fell to the floor, and he started to pull me backwards toward Blaze. I screamed and suddenly heard a crash. He released me. I hurried to my feet to see Blaze standing over a bleeding unconscious Rick – a broken dresser drawer in her hand. Her emaciated arms shook from the effort.

“How did you find me?” she whispered almost inaudibly; her voice box clearly damaged.

“I found your note in the bottle,” I gulped. “He was with me when we found it!” I almost screamed in disbelief. “What are he chances that WE found your letter?”

“I am not sure,” her tiny voice whispered, “but apparently fate is very resourceful”.