The Disappearance of Thomas Jenkins

I stood alone. There was nothing but darkness, and through the dark I couldn’t make out where I was. Fog enshrouded my mind, dizzying and heavy. I took a step forward and the floor cracked like fragile glass, yet it was solid. The feeling of where I was is hard to describe, but I would say it was a cavern—an infinite cavern that exposed you, body and soul. I felt watched, evaluated, assessed. 

A light clicked on behind me, the click echoed into the cavernous—carnivorous—void. I turned and saw three doors. They stood separated; metal doors erected in metal frames. I was plated ten feet from them, unmoving. Curious fear kept me rooted. For moments I just stared, and they stared back at me—faceless, immovable, rapacious. I lingered at the base of them, unsure what they were supposed to mean or why I was there. I couldn’t recall what brought me to them, but that growing curiosity needed to know more.

Like a sharp trowel, that curiosity uprooted me, and I stepped towards to door on the right. I knocked a singular, hard knock. Silence. I blinked. I was... disappointed. Shaking the clouding doubt, I stepped to the left and tried the second door. Knock, knock. I stepped back, feeling too close to the looming frame. Silence. Huh. I tried shaking the doubt back again, but it clung to me. I moved anyway to the farthest left door and tried again. Knock, knock, knock.

Knock.

A reply. 

Excited, yet uncertain, I touched the door handle. My fingers danced on it, contemplating, configuring the worth. Burying apprehension, I grasped the handle firmly, turned the knob, and pushed. 

Noon sun rose high in a clear blue sky, warming earthy open fields and dispersing long shadows of white pined forest that enveloped our comely cottage. I stood near our front door in sweat-drenched working clothes awaiting the return of my wife and children. 

Small steps sounded, padding down the dirt path that led from the town’s country roads to our enclosed cottage. One after the other, racing, my eldest daughter, Isabella, ran from the distance. Her pale-yellow Sunday dress whipped behind her; her Bible bag dragged in the dirt. She ran, then leapt into my arms as I held them out to catch her into an embrace.

“Papa!” She was seven at the time. “You’ll never guess what happened, Papa!”

Hoisting her on my hip, I matched her playful tone, “What is it? What happened?” 

“Tommy Jenkins went to Hell today!” she squealed, an excited gleam in her honey-golden eyes. 

A slight pause. The corners of my mouth dropped, “What happened?”  

“Tommy Jenkins went to Hell! We were playing in the field after Sunday class, and when we went into the forest blue flames went all around him!” Her bottom started to slip, and I set her down, looking up at my wife who was coming up the path with our two younger boys holding each hand. Solemnity on her face. 

Isabella continued. “And then...and then I screamed and then he screamed, and a big hand came from under him that had blue flames all over it, and it took him to Hell!”  

My stomach churned. I felt bile rising into my throat and I gulped it down, blinking, shaking my head, trying to make sense of Isabella’s words. I looked down at her, “It did what?” 

“Tommy Jenkins disappeared!” 

She gleaned and ran off towards the house as my wife, Jane, approached with the two younger boys. Jane stopped by my side and nudged the preschooler boys to follow, then she placed a free hand on my shoulder and a kiss on my cheek. She was sympathetic.

I looked at her, “She told you?”  

“She did,” Jane lowered her voice and leaned in, “Tommy went missing.” 

"Joseph’s son?”

She nodded and continued, “The other children in the class think it was Isabella.”  

“What?” I spat, fury digging into my spine, “They think she did what?”  

“Well,” she started softly, “some of their classmates told Miss Williams they saw Isabella and Tommy walking off into the forest. She came back, but he never did.” 

I couldn’t believe it, “And that’s their theory? Isabella hurt him? He could have wandered and gotten lost. Maybe she came back to tell them that.”

Jane tried to smile, but it only scrunched her face into deep concern. With tears welling in her eyes, she choked out, “They said things. They said when she came back, she seemed to be confused. She didn’t know where she was, and they said that—that her eyes were...” her voice dropped to a whisper, “they were glowing blue.” 

I scoffed, “This is ridiculous.”  

“John…” 

“No, Jane, this is ridiculous. I won’t have the town thinking our daughter is some—some monster. I’ll deal with them later, but we won’t discuss it further.” 

She nodded and touched my shoulder again lightly before walking on toward the house, clearing the tears from her eyes.  

The door slammed shut as I was pushed back out of a memory. Heavy breaths caught in my throat and I stood panting, blinking, trying to get rid of the visions. My heart pounded. Long-forgotten pain and anger the anger and the disbelief flooded back into me. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to do this—to cycle through memories. I missed his family—Jane and Isabella, Isaac and Gabriel. I wanted to go home.

I leaned back and looked up. Darkness. I could find no roof, nor the origin of the spotlight above. I examined the other two doors. They were frightening, but I needed to know. What was the purpose of this? A cruel joke? Punishment? Punishment by whom? Isabella, Jane, the Minister, the townspeople, Joseph? God maybe, on behalf of Joseph.

I spoke to him one day—Joseph—a couple weeks after the search parties for Tommy dispersed. He sat on a pew at the front of the nave in the church. He was staring up at the carving of Jesus, crucified, bound; a wooden, flowing sash caressed his shoulders, sauntered down over his bare chest and wrapped around his groin, lacing at his ankles. His hands and feet bleed red paint, dripping eternally down the woodgrain. The carving was from one solid oak. I was there when they cut the tree down for it. The carver, Johann, passed away a few years ago. Heart attack.

The church door closed behind me with a clank, echoing in the high ceilings. Joseph didn’t move. He didn’t turn back to look. It was only us at the church during this mid-day. I walked and sat at the pew across the aisle from him. 

After a few minutes of silence, Jospeh looked over at me. His whole body turned, and he looked down at the floor, eyebrows squished together in a fuzzy ridge. Purple bags lined sunken eyes. His mouth was half open, as if about to say something to me. He looked up. I looked away. 

“John...” he said.

I looked back. He smiled. He didn’t say anything else in that moment. His head turned again and he was staring at Jesus, pinned to the cross. I studied him then, for as long as I could. He looked tired, yet at some sort of peace. Despite the crow's feet spreading from his eyes and the frown lines formed around his lips, he looked almost like his younger self—at peace; free from the worries that parenthood brings you. His hand went to something around his neck. His thumb ran slowly across a silver cross on a silver chain. Joseph spoke again, eyes still fixed on the figure, “How is your family, John?”

“Fine,” I said. “Just fine.”

He nodded. “This was supposed to be Tommy’s.” He raised the cross on the chain, taut as he held it out.

“Oh?” I said.

“It was to be his fifteenth birthday gift. Handed down from my lineage. Always on the fifteenth, as a coming-of-age.” 

“Oh,” I said again.

Joseph continued, “I think I shall bury it.”

“Bury it?”

“Yes, bury it. At the base of Tommy’s headstone. Is that a good idea?”

“Maybe it is,” I said.

Joseph nodded, “I think that perhaps his soul will be able to find its way to Heaven if it has Jesus as his guide, would you agree?”

“Oh, well, yes. Most certainly.”

“Then,” he looked over to me and held my gaze for only a moment before looking back at the crucifix on the wall. “I shall bury it.”

No. This would never have been a punishment requested by him. He was too kind. He made peace with us. I looked at the doors again, erected before me. I needed to know what the purpose of this was. I walked to the second door and knocked. Instead of a steady knock in return, there came a child’s cry. At first, it was soft sobbing, then it became a shriek. I flung the door open to find myself dragged back into the memory I least wanted to relive. 

Rays of stained-glass light streamed through the church in the orange, dusking afternoon. Years ago, this place had been a solace to me. It gave me hope for a future, guidance for myself and my children, and peace when I could talk to God without worry. No longer did the rows of creaky pews and the trampled, red runner provide a path to salvation. No more could I look upon the white walls with golden oak trim and find comfort. Tonight, the air of the church only fermented my decaying faith. 

Adolescent Isabella bawled in the open center of the chancel, the center of the cross. The young village minister, Josiah, stood tall in front of her, his back facing the alter. He held a wooden bowl in the flat of his left palm that contained a mixture of salt and water. He pushed Isabella to her knees and placed his right hand on her forehead. In a rough semi-circle around them stood Jane, our sons, and a gathering of townsfolk that lived in their small community. 

I met eyes with Joseph and his wife. He looked away, color rising into his cheeks. I felt the heat rise in mine. We had been such good friends before Tommy went missing. Now, they distanced themselves. Joseph sympathized with me at first, telling me that he didn’t believe Isabella would harm Tommy. They pushed away the other townsfolk and forgave us. Yet, they still shut us out. I didn’t blame them. I was only grateful we hadn’t been hunted.

The ceremonial gatherers were mostly quiet, patiently waiting for the exorcising to begin, but small murmurs echoed throughout an anxious crowd. Minister Josiah led a soft opening prayer to begin. 

“Let us bow our heads.” 

Minister Josiah laid his palm flat against Isabella's forehead, fingers tangled in her fawn locks. He prayed for her loud and confident; his deep voice reverberated off the vaulted ceiling and echoed throughout the rest of the church, sending chills down my spine. 

He started slowly, “In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” A soft surge of “amens” echoed him. He waited for the hall to fall silent before continuing. 

As the gathering prayed for Isabella, I did not. I stood at the back of the nave, the bottom of the cross, watching with a loathing fury. My hands wrung at my coat to stop me from wringing the necks of the whole community that stood and watched the ceremony. 

“Most glorious Prince of the Heavenly Armies, Saint Michael the Archangel,” 

I had argued with Jane prior to this, denying Isabella’s involvement in anything devilish or Satanic as she suggested. I was confounded that Jane would even suggest that Isabella had been possessed. 

Yet Jane protested. After Tommy Jenkins got “taken to Hell” four years earlier, Isabella was never the same. She stayed to herself, mostly. She murmured odd phrases and kept curious objects, like the handful of bird skulls and sheep teeth—kept as trinkets and memoirs of dead things—that I found in a wooden box under her bed. Her grades in Bible study dropped, along with her interest in the home tutoring Jane led for the children. Isabella became antisocial and an insomniac. She would wander the woods at night when she thought everyone was asleep, but I knew. I saw her wandering. I confronted her about it once, when the nightly adventures first began. She was out of bed with only her slippers and nightgown on. She just walked out of the front door, not even inconspicuously. I had been sitting at the kitchen table scraping warmed butter over leftover bread when I watched her glide down the steps and out the front door. Baffled at her audacity, I threw my coat on and stepped after her.   

“Isabella!” I called. 

She was halfway down their path, near the woods.   

“What in God’s name are you doing out here at this hour?” I paced towards her, frustrated, and grabbed her shoulder to turn her around. “Isabella?”

She looked up at me. And I stepped back, startled. My hand fell. Her eyes were a pale blue, clouded, with deep purple bags lining them. She stared distantly, like a curious creature. She blinked once. Then after a moment, she turned and continued towards the woods.  

I watched her go, noticing the mud on her slippers, the tangles in her hair, the gauntness of her cheekbones, and the frailness of her tiny body. Worst of all, I only now noticed the cleaver in her hand.  

“Defend us in our battle against principalities and powers, against the rulers of this world of darkness, against the spirits of wickedness in the high places.”  

Curious fear drove me to follow her, as it seems to be for any courageous act of mine. She led her way into the white pine woods that lined the edge of the property, dragging her feet across the wet, fallen leaves that rested on the ground. I delayed behind her, wrapping my coat tighter to brace the chill. I didn’t think she’d suspect me, but I wanted to be safe—to avoid that ghostly gaze of my departing daughter. Generally, the woods were a place I hesitated to traverse. Some unknown fear nagged at me always at the base of the pines, screaming at me to run or to flee to the nearest opening where the shadows behind the thick trunks and the creatures that sat atop the branches couldn’t sweep me away. It was a fear I’ve had since I was a young boy, and it has stayed with me all these years. 

“In the Name of Jesus Christ, our God and Lord, strengthened by the intercession of the Immaculate Virgin Mary, Mother of God,” 

The further we trekked into the woods, the less the moonlight illuminated the forest floor. The air of the autumn night became harder to breathe as the white pines grew taller and thicker, sucking up fresh air with their greedy leaves and roots. I was suffocating, hyperventilating. The pines shelter a cemetery for dying flora and decaying carcasses of forgotten fauna; they protect secrets both lost and not yet concealed by the earthly stench of fungal consumption and rot.

“Of Blessed Michael the Archangel, of the Blessed Apostles Peter and Paul and all the Saints, and powerful in the holy authority of our ministry,” 

I stopped suddenly. I could only hear the pulse of my heartbeat on the drums of my ears. I gazed through wide eyes now adjusted to the darkness, searching for the sin that dragged me out on this night. 

Isabella was gone.  

Fear. Blood rushed through to my head, blurring my vision and causing momentary vertigo. I turned to look around. Sepia darkness surrounded me. I couldn’t breathe, and in my panic, my heels snapped twigs and brushed aside resting leaves. Stumbling forward, I tripped over something loose and unseen, falling fast to the ground. The cause of my fall rolled slightly underneath him, colliding together with a hollow clatter. 

“We confidently undertake to repulse the attacks and deceits of the devil. God arises; His enemies are scattered and those who hate Him flee before Him.” 

I lifted myself up to a seated position and felt for the object that had lost me my balance. I felt around and underneath, fingers and palms groping with a greedy curiosity. It was smooth and rigid in some places, while others felt attached to cold and crisp textures that gave away slightly. It was fuzzy, like molded bark that housed fresh fungi and moss. A final touch dropped my heart. Smooth, small, round. A skull. A child’s skull.

“As smoke is driven away, so are they driven; as wax melts before the fire, so the wicked perish at the presence of God.” 

As Minister Josiah finished the prayer, the saltwater was poured upon Isabella’s head. She screamed as it touched her skin. Shaking violently, she tossed and kicked and fell upon her back. She grabbed at the floor, having a malicious attack of some kind.

To me, it looked like a seizure, but Jane saw it as a sign of God’s work. In tears, she fell to the floor at Isabella’s side and placed her palms on each of her shoulders. She pushed Isabella to the floor, pressing her weight against the tiny, flailing body. Over and over, Jane cried, “Release her! Release my baby!” 

“Papa!” Isabella cried out, exhausted; her thin arms pushed weakly against her mother, “Papa!”    

Without hesitation, I leaped down the aisle between the pews towards them. I wrenched Jane off, clasping her tight against my chest, constraining her arms beneath my own. She tried to push me back with her feeble arms, tears streaming down reddened cheeks.     

“Don’t touch her!” she cried into my chest. “It’s leaving her!”

I shoved her aside and knelt next to Isabella, gently lifting her small shoulders. “Isabella, can you hear me?” She continued to seize—foaming at the mouth, face turning pale, and her lips going blue. 

“Isabella! Wake up!” Slowly, her seizing became less violent. She shook and twitched less and less until her movements stopped. “Wake up,” I cried, “please.” 

Her body fell limp in my arms. She was so small and pale in my arms. I felt nothing but shame and anger. I should have confronted her about Tommy. I should have helped her instead of avoiding her out of my own cowardice. I should have been there when I saw her slipping. I could have done anything else but watch the Devil take my daughter. 

Underneath the gravity of the silence and watching eyes, I could do nothing but cry into her hair. Jane placed a soft hand on my shoulder—her only sign of consolation. Yet, the only thing that could console me was the honey-brown eyes that stared up at me and the voice that followed their gaze. 

“Papa?”   

I was flung back from the door and landed hard on the cold floor. The door slammed shut and locked from the other side. I gasped, struggling and deep, and tears streamed from my eyes. I wanted to cry out for my family, but no words came. I stood slowly, quivering. The memory filled me with emotion I couldn’t smother, and I resented it. 

I sat there on the floor, knees to my chest, arms cradling my own shoulders. I thought maybe the denial seeped in again—like it did when she killed Tommy Jenkins and like it did when she dissected those other animals. It all washed over me, creating a foggy glass barrier between my love for my daughter and the reality of who she was when she hunted in the forests at night, lurking in the woods, waiting for sacrifices to feed the poisonous demon within her. I wasn’t a doctor. I wasn’t a minister. I didn’t know what had a hold of her and I knew he would never find out.  

I smashed my palms into my eyes, rubbing them, drawing out the inevitability of the next door. After a few more moments, I stood. I knew that I had to go through it. It was erected plainly, yet it was menacing. Power pulsed from behind it, roping and pulling me forward. With the palm of my hand around the knob, I braced myself and opened the last door.  

I followed the footsteps in the snow. Small, petite, yet clumsy, the imprints shuffled and hopped and meandered into the white pines. I rolled his head forward in defeat. She wandered off again. I tried so hard to keep her contained to society, yet she was called into the depths of the trees yet again.

Isabella had become more troubled over the past few months, since the exorcism attempt, and her relationship with Jane only worsened. I wasn’t sure how to handle any of it. I tried to commune with her—to confront her about the devilish things she was doing from carving up animals to the murder of her young friend. I had told myself that I needed to be more straightforward about it; I needed to reach out to her, to help her.  

I followed the footprints. All the while, I tried to come up with something to say to her. I wasn’t afraid of her. I couldn’t be—not if I wanted to help. As I argued with myself, I continued to follow the trail deeper into the woods. I got nearer to her usual hideaway. And then I stopped. Droplets of red soaked into the white canvas.  

My heart sunk. “Isabella!” 

In a panic, I followed the rest of the trail to her branch shelter. A small body laid on its side, curled. It was her. She looked asleep, and I would have been convinced that she was if not for the silver chain wrapped around her hand, burning into her skin, and the handle of a blade that stuck out from the center of her abdomen. I fell to my knees and crawled into the shelter. 

Isabella turned her head to me. She looked so tired and so used.   

She smiled softly, “I got it, Papa—the demon.”  

I crawled to her and set her head into my lap to keep it from sinking into the snow. “What have you done, child?” My fingers ran through her hair, brushing locks from her eyes. 

Isabella placed her hand over mine, cold and purple. A silver cross fell from the clenched fist to the ground, its imprint brandished into her palm.  

“I told you. It’s okay.” Her voice, though quiet, was confident, “The demon is gone now.” Her hand slid from mine and fell gently onto the snow.  

The last door closed with a soft clank, sliding a final lock into place. I didn’t understand. I collapsed and wept. I never understood any of it—Isabella, Jane, or my unwillingness to accept anything was wrong. I never would understand. I stood again. There was nothing left to do. Above me, the lights flicked off, sudden and loud. With resolve. I stepped away from the doors and began to walk toward the darkness—the only place I deserved to go. And on I walked, for a very, very long time.

Adriana Culverhouse, 2021