October 21, 1932-

They had no right showing me that. No right at all. Now I must carry the wound of another and bear the scars for the rest of my life.

Chief Madhoon paid me a visit this morning to inform me that my husband was to be taken to the state courthouse for immediate trial for the murder of my James. The chief told me they found my son’s body. He asked if I wanted to come see. What a question to put on a mother! I could not bear the thought of carrying my last memory of James as me calling after him as a monster dragged him through the woods and away from me forever. Of course a mother has to say goodbye to her son when given the chance. I’d rather my last vision be of his lifeless body than that naked look of terror. As the chief led me toward the woods, it felt like retracing the steps like I had in my mind every moment since losing James. But this time, I barely noticed my feet below me. The trees parted as if allowing a grieving mother safe passage through their tangled snarl.. The entire way I thought I drifted, ghostlike and unmoored.

We reached the high point of a leaf-covered hill, directly west of where I ran after the demon. It was so out of the way I never would have thought to search there. Before the chief would allow me to crest the hill, he spun to face me and checked once more that this was something I needed to see. He told me that what was on the other side was gruesome, something no woman should ever have to bear, let alone it being her own flesh and blood.

I must confess that I was not prepared for such a sight.

As we tramped over the hilltop, the macabre scene below reached out with a malevolent hand and crushed my windpipe. For I don’t know how long, I gasped in shallow breaths and tears flowed like  heavy rain. My mind was in shambles. What lay below was beyond my reasoning.

All I could see was the blood at first. It painted the trees and forest floor as if sprayed by a bomb detonated in the Great War. My eyes flitted around, searching for the source of  this bloodied gore. That’s when I realized the pulverized heap of flesh and bone at the center of this carnage were the remains of my son. The tableau of horror mesmerized me, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the repugnant scene. From this distance the body looked bloated like it’d spent time submerged, but something else was wrong. The corpse was missing its head.

The hand released its grip on my throat, and I charged forward, screaming.

My heart tore as I fell to my knees into a mess of leaves and blood. Two men grabbed me to yank me away, but with a mother’s ferocity I fought them back. I’d come this far, and no power on heaven or earth was stealing my boy from me again.

It was the clothes that spoke to me. They were his clothes. They were exactly what he wore when the monster snatched him away. His sky blue sweater vest was plum purple from the congealed blood and splatter. His long shirt now red and soaked with crimson heartbreak. I know I was screaming, but I could only hear the drumbeat of my heart and I knew it was about to explode with despair.

I shall not spare details, for to do so would make his death meaningless. Instead I wish the world to understand what this monster did, so those that search for it know the depths of its depravity.

The child’s head had burst like an overinflated balloon. Muscle and skin lay like shredded ribbon along what was left of the neck. What was once the top of the spine jutted from the fleshy hole. The remains of the skull now fragmented and shattered, strewn over the grizzly scene, and embedded in the forest floor and trunks of trees. His distorted hands and feet protruded from the clothing, and a putrid ooze leaked from his denim jeans.

I now must confess the truth. When my instincts compelled me toward my son to give a desperate goodbye hug, realization dawned, and a ray of hope flared in my mind.

This body was not my James.

He was dressed like my James. The clothes were certainly his; the sweater even had the same loop hanging off the right side from where he snagged it on a nail last week. But his hands told a different tale.

I can’t think of anywhere I’ve gone without my darling James taking my hand, swinging it as we went. He was...no...he is such a happy boy. I’ve held and squeezed those perfect hands of his endlessly. But those hands before me were small and frail. None of the muscle tone of my son’s hands. And more distinctly, the crescent shaped scar on the palm of his hand had vanished. Death can’t change that.

I immediately backed away.

And I knew better than to do anything but play the part of a bereaved mother. I must have played the part well, as it got me home, safe and sound, away from that forest.

I know not what that chief or his force are up to, but they have decided to pin the murder of that poor child on my husband, and there is nothing I can do. Even if there was, I have not the time.

I must find my boy.

I will.

Next Chapter: Seven