"The Vanishing at Spence Field":
June 14, 1969. It was Father’s Day weekend, and the kind of morning that made you believe the world was at peace. The sky over the Great Smoky Mountains was washed in blue, the sun just cresting the ridgelines and filtering golden light through the tall canopy of oak and fir. The scent of pine needles, moss, and blooming wildflowers drifted through the cool mountain air, sharp and fresh, the way only the wilderness could offer. Everything felt right.
We were full of excitement, the kind that buzzes quietly just beneath the surface. My wife Violet had packed everyone’s things with care, double-checking the boys’ jackets and canteens. Our sons, Dennis and Doug, were practically vibrating with energy. Dennis, only six, was on his first real camping trip—one where we'd hike deep into the mountains, sleep in tents, cook over open flame, and chase fireflies as the night settled around us. His red T-shirt practically glowed in the morning light, and his green shorts seemed to blur as he darted up the trail ahead of us, calling back over his shoulder.
“Dad, look at the mountains!” he shouted, his finger outstretched toward the sea of green ridges rolling off into the distance.
I smiled as I adjusted the straps on my pack. “Pretty cool, huh? Stay close, buddy,” I said, though I already knew he wouldn’t—at least not for long. That’s how six-year-olds are, especially when they’re tasting real freedom for the first time.
Doug, who had just turned nine, trotted along behind us with a sort of older-brother superiority. “You’re so slow, Dennis,” he teased, kicking a rock off the path and watching it bounce into the underbrush.
Dennis only laughed, undeterred, and ran back toward me, his small hand finding mine. He looked up at me with those wide, dark brown eyes, full of life and curiosity, his cheeks flushed from the mountain air. I remember thinking: this—this is what it’s all about.
Our trail started at Cades Cove, a place where the meadows stretched out like green blankets beneath the watchful gaze of the mountains. We hiked toward Russell Field, where we’d make camp for the night. The woods were alive with birdsong—warblers, woodpeckers, the occasional crow—and the sound of the wind teasing the trees. Every once in a while, we’d hear a branch crack under the foot of a deer or the scurry of a squirrel racing up a trunk. Life was everywhere.
That night, as the fire crackled and the darkness swallowed the woods beyond our campsite, we sat together roasting marshmallows. The sweet smell of sugar melting over flames filled the air. My father, Clyde, sat beside me, gazing into the firelight with a nostalgic sort of softness.
“Remember when we used to do this?” he asked quietly, his voice warm and gravelly.
“Yeah,” I said, watching the boys chase fireflies just outside the circle of light. “Now it’s their turn.”
We didn’t need to say much more. Sometimes it’s enough to just share a silence like that.
The next morning broke clear and bright. The dew still clung to the grass, glistening in the sunlight. We made our way to Spence Field, a grassy clearing high up in the Smokies, just off the Appalachian Trail. You could see for miles from there—rolling ridges and valleys painted in every shade of green, with distant peaks fading into blue. It felt untouched, pure.
Another family had already arrived—the Carters, with two boys close in age to ours. The kids wasted no time, as kids do. Within minutes, they were running around together like lifelong friends, giggling and plotting games with the urgency only children possess. They decided on hide-and-seek. Dennis was thrilled.
“Dennis, don’t go far,” I said as he took off toward the edge of the clearing, glancing back with a mischievous grin.
“Okay, Dad!” he called, already halfway to the tree line.
We watched as the kids darted behind bushes and trees. Every so often, one would pop out, laughing or shouting “found you!” I remember checking my watch. It was about 11:30. A perfect morning. Nothing felt wrong.
Until it did.
Doug reappeared, cheeks red, eyes bright. The Carter boys ran out from their hiding places. But Dennis didn’t. We waited, at first amused, thinking he was just being clever. But as the seconds ticked by, that amusement turned into unease.
“Dennis! Come on out, the game’s over!” I shouted, walking toward the spot I’d last seen him. Nothing. No giggle, no rustling leaves. Just the wind.
“Violet, you see him?” I asked, glancing around, my voice already tinged with tension.
She stood frozen for a second, then pointed. “He was right there, behind that bush.”
We began calling his name, louder and louder. Clyde began checking behind trees, calling out. I broke into a jog, then a run, scanning the tree line, my pulse rising with every step. The Carters joined in. Their oldest boy started crying. Five minutes passed. Then ten. The forest was silent except for the frantic voices calling Dennis’s name.
My heart pounded in my ears. I yelled again, my voice cracking. “Dennis!”
Violet came up behind me, her hand clutching my sleeve. “He wouldn’t just run off, William. He wouldn’t.”
“I know,” I said, barely able to speak. “I know. But we need to keep looking.”
We scoured the field and the trails leading away from it. We checked behind logs, inside bushes, along creeks. No red shirt. No footprints in the dirt. No broken twigs, no candy wrappers, no sign that a little boy had ever been there. It was like he’d been plucked from the earth.
Tom Carter offered to run back to the ranger station. “I’ll go,” he said. “We need help.”
“Please,” I said, gripping his shoulder. “Hurry.”
Rangers arrived by mid-afternoon. Ranger Harris, a tall, wiry man with a calm demeanor, stepped forward, his notepad in hand. “When did you last see him?”
“Right around 11:30. He was maybe 50 feet away. He was just hiding—then he was gone.”
“We’ll set up a grid search,” Harris said. “We’ve got protocols for this. We’ll find him.”
But nothing in the world felt like a guarantee anymore. More rangers showed up, then volunteers, and soon the field was a hive of movement—men with radios, dogs, maps, flashlights. I remember seeing the helicopter rise up over the trees that evening, the thumping of its blades echoing like a heartbeat.
The sun sank behind the mountains, and shadows took over. Spence Field, which had seemed so alive and open that morning, now felt cold and vast. Violet clutched Doug tightly. He was crying into her shoulder.
“Is Dennis lost, Dad?” he asked me, his voice small.
“We’re gonna find him,” I said. But my voice trembled.
I didn’t sleep that night. I just sat in the dark, listening. The forest was too quiet. Every rustle made me jump. I thought I heard whispers in the wind, imagined footsteps beyond the trees. But it was just the mountain. Or maybe not.
By morning, the search doubled in size. The National Guard came. Green Berets. Dozens, then hundreds of people combed the area, calling out, scanning the ground. I walked until my legs gave out, my throat raw from shouting. I listened for a laugh, a cry, anything. But there was only silence.
On the third day, the rain came. A cold, unrelenting downpour that soaked everything and turned the dirt trails into rivers of mud. Fog rolled in like a ghost, wrapping the mountain in silence and gray. Harris found me near a creek, my clothes soaked through, my boots squelching in the mud.
“The rain’s making it worse,” he said. “It’s washing everything away. Tracks, scent trails. All of it.”
I stared into the woods, then back at him. “He’s out there,” I said. “He’s out there. You have to keep looking.”
“We are,” he said. But his eyes were tired, the kind of tired that comes when you start to lose hope.
Someone found a shred of red fabric caught on a thorn bush. My heart skipped. I ran over, breath caught in my throat.
“It’s not the same material,” Harris said, gently holding it out. “Sorry.”
Another volunteer thought she heard laughter echoing from deep in the woods. We ran toward it, machetes in hand, cutting through brush and bramble. But there was nothing. Just trees and silence. False hope can break you worse than fear.
The days blurred. One became five. Five became ten. More than 1,400 people joined the search. Nothing. Not a footprint. Not a thread. Not a whisper. Just emptiness. Theories started to spread—he got lost, fell, was taken. Some rangers whispered about wild animals. Others, about something worse.
After sixteen days, Harris sat us down. His voice was low, careful. “We’ve covered every inch we can. We’re scaling back.”
Violet broke. She sobbed into my chest, and I couldn’t hold myself up. I collapsed with her. I wanted to scream, to tear into the mountains and rip the truth from them. But they were silent.
We packed up. Left the field. Left the camp. Left part of our hearts behind. At home, nothing was right. The world kept turning, but slower. Every knock on the door, every phone ring—hope would flare and die.
In 1985, a ginseng hunter claimed he found a child’s skeleton deep in the park. Rangers searched, but they found nothing. In 2022, the FBI released old case files. Still no answers.
It’s been more than fifty years. We never found Dennis. Never knew if he got lost, if he was taken, if the mountains simply swallowed him whole. The not-knowing is the heaviest weight.
Sometimes, I still dream of him. His red shirt, his laugh, his hand in mine. Sometimes I hear his voice in the woods behind our house. Then I wake up. And it’s just the wind again. The wind, and the ache.
"The Bearings of Belanglo":
Orienteering has always been more than just a hobby for me—it’s a way of thinking, a way of being. Give me a topographic map, a compass, and a thick forest, and I’ll disappear for hours, chasing bearings, plotting points, solving nature like a living maze. There’s something about reading the land, matching every ridge and contour line to the world beneath my boots, that just makes sense. Some people meditate. I hike and navigate.
On September 19, 1992, a cool Saturday morning, my buddy Sam and I loaded our gear into his clunky old Toyota—rust around the wheel wells, cassette deck jammed on a Midnight Oil tape—and headed out to Belanglo State Forest. We were looking for new terrain, something more challenging than the usual parks and reserves near Sydney. Belanglo had a reputation among bushwalkers—dense, wild, untouched in parts. Perfect for an all-day orienteering challenge. The drive took about two hours, the kind of time that melts away with the right company. Sam never shut up—always cracking jokes, arguing about what snack was best for the trail (he swore by barbecue Shapes, I stuck to scroggin), and teasing me about my obsession with laminated maps.
The forest greeted us with that sharp, spicy scent of eucalyptus and the quiet hum of remoteness. The parking area wasn’t much—just a wide patch of dirt off a service road—but to us, it was the starting line. Sam pulled his compass out like he was drawing a sword. “Today’s gonna be great, mate,” he said, lobbing a warm water bottle at me. “Bet I beat you to the first checkpoint.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “You got turned around at Lane Cove, remember? We had to follow dog tracks out.”
He grinned and took off down the trail, boots kicking up dust. I checked my map one last time, dialed in my azimuth, and followed him in. The light filtered through the high canopy in slanted rays, and the underbrush was thick enough to slow us but not enough to obscure the land features. We placed our first few flags—nothing fancy, just bright orange streamers tied to low branches—and took notes on the terrain. It was everything we’d hoped for: gullies, rocky outcrops, and enough quiet that the birds sounded like they were performing just for us.
About an hour in, we were well off the established path. We’d cut east by northeast to a low ridge that should’ve led us to a dry creek bed, and I was adjusting our route when Sam stopped. He wasn’t laughing anymore. He stood still, staring about twenty meters ahead into the brush.
“Hold up, Alex,” he said, squinting. “What’s that over there?”
I followed his gaze. Just beyond the ridge, a mound lay beneath a loose covering of branches and dried leaves. It wasn’t shaped like any fallen tree or scrub pile. Too symmetrical. Too deliberate. Something about it looked... wrong. Like someone had tried to make it look accidental and just missed the mark.
“Probably just a pile of storm debris,” I offered, but I didn’t believe it. There was a tightness in my chest. A quiet alarm.
Then came the smell. It didn’t hit all at once, just sort of crept in like a sour fog—rot, wet earth, something organic breaking down in a way the forest couldn’t disguise. I saw Sam’s nose wrinkle.
“Let’s check it out,” he said, but his voice didn’t sound curious anymore. It sounded cautious. Edged.
I hesitated. Everything in my gut said turn around. “I don’t know, man. Something feels off.”
“Come on, don’t be a wuss,” he said with a shaky laugh, trying to shrug it off like always. But even he didn’t sound convinced.
He stepped forward, and I followed, picking my way through dry brush and avoiding the low-hanging limbs. The smell was thicker the closer we got—meaty, pungent, unmistakably wrong. When we reached the mound, I saw it. A hand. Sticking out like a white root from beneath the pile, fingers curled slightly, skin pale and mottled. Human.
I stopped cold. “Sam,” I whispered, my voice nearly lost in the breeze. “That’s… that’s a person.”
He took a step back, his face going white. “Nah, nah, can’t be. It’s probably just… a dead roo or something, a weird angle.”
I didn’t reply. I couldn’t. I was already crouching, using a long stick to push aside some of the branches. More of the body came into view—jeans, a torn shirt soaked with old blood, skin gone waxy. And her eyes… open, glazed, staring through us. Her chest was still, her face twisted in pain. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-five.
I gagged, stumbled back, barely holding down the water I’d just drunk. Sam had gone completely still, his lips moving like he was trying to speak but couldn’t form the words.
“Oh God, Sam,” I managed. “She’s been murdered.”
His hands were shaking now. “What do we do? Alex, what the hell do we do?”
I had to force myself to think. To not lose it. “We leave. Now. We call the cops.”
The forest didn’t feel like the same place anymore. The light was still golden, but it felt cold. The silence was heavier. Every snapping twig sounded like something watching us, following. I stuffed the map back in my bag without folding it, and we half-walked, half-ran toward the car. Sam tripped over a root and swore, and I nearly dropped my compass, fumbling to get the keys out as we reached the clearing. I don’t think either of us even took off our packs—we just climbed into the car and tore down the gravel road, dust billowing behind us.
Berrima wasn’t far, but the drive felt endless. Every corner we turned, every tree that rushed past, felt like it might reveal something else—another body, a car pulled to the side, someone stepping out of the woods. When we finally pulled into the police station, we were sweating and wild-eyed, stumbling over each other to explain.
The officer at the desk blinked at us like he wasn’t sure we were real. “You found what in Belanglo?”
“A body,” I said again, trying not to break down. “A woman. We didn’t touch much. It’s covered, but it’s her. She’s… gone.”
He stood up, no more hesitation, grabbed a radio, and called it in. Within minutes, we were seated in a side office, going over the details again and again, pointing out the location on a larger map he brought out from a filing cabinet. “You’ll need to take us there,” he said. “Can you do that?”
We could. And we did. That return walk through the forest was the longest hike of my life. The smell found us before the body did, just like before. Only this time, the officers were with us. One of them, a woman with sharp eyes and a thick ponytail, knelt down and confirmed what we already knew.
“This is a crime scene. Stay back. Don’t touch anything else.”
They asked everything. When we’d arrived. What we’d seen. Who we’d talked to. If we’d noticed anyone else in the area. My mind was a blur, my nerves shot. I answered what I could. Sam barely spoke.
We were told to leave after they secured the area. We drove back to Sydney in silence, the weight of what we’d seen settling in like a thick fog. I kept seeing her eyes. That hand. The stillness. Sam looked straight ahead, jaw clenched tight. We didn’t even stop for food.
It wasn’t long before we heard her name: Joanne Walters. An English backpacker. A day later, they found Caroline Clarke nearby—another young woman. She’d been shot. Executed, almost. The news exploded with the story. And months after that, they caught the man responsible—Ivan Milat. Seven confirmed victims, all travelers. Killed in the same forest we’d spent hours navigating like it was some kind of game.
I never went back to orienteering after that. Gave away my compass, folded up my maps for the last time. The bush, once a place of challenge and freedom, now felt like a graveyard. Sam and I drifted apart—not in a dramatic way, just quietly. Like two people who couldn’t share the same air anymore without remembering what we’d seen. I tried talking about it a few times, but every time I did, I saw her face again. Those eyes.
Now, every forest I pass looks different. Not mysterious, not inviting—just dangerous. Every night, I double check the locks. Sometimes I wake up thinking I smell that sour, rotten scent again. But mostly, I just try to forget what we found that day. Try, and fail.
Because Belanglo showed me the worst kind of fear—the human kind. The kind that wears a face and walks upright and knows exactly what it’s doing. And it waits in the quiet places, the beautiful ones, where no one ever thinks to look.
"The Night Evelyn Vanished":
It was October 24, 1953, a chilly Saturday night in La Crosse, Wisconsin. The air outside had the kind of bite that hinted at an early winter, and the wind rustled dry leaves along the sidewalk in whispering little bursts. My daughter, Evelyn, was fifteen—just fifteen—but she had an old soul. Thoughtful, kind, always eager to help. She had a bright mind and a brighter heart, the kind of girl teachers adored and neighbors trusted. That night, she was babysitting for the Rasmusens, a young couple who lived just a few blocks away. They had a new baby, barely a year old, and Evelyn loved kids. She had promised to call us at 8:30, just to check in, like she always did.
The clock on the mantle chimed half past eight. I glanced up, expecting the phone to ring any second. But it didn’t. At first, I brushed it off. Maybe the baby was fussy, or Evelyn had dozed off on the couch. But then 8:40 came. Then 8:45. I stood up, heart starting to thud. Something wasn’t right.
“Margaret,” I called to my wife, who was curled up in the armchair, her knitting needles clicking softly in the quiet room. “Evelyn hasn’t called. She’s never late.”
Margaret looked up, her eyes narrowing in concern. “Maybe she’s just busy. You know how babies can be.”
I nodded slowly, but something deep in my gut twisted. My fingers trembled as I picked up the phone and dialed the Rasmusens' number. It rang once. Twice. Then five times. Ten. No answer. I hung up, pulse pounding in my ears. “We’re going over there,” I said, grabbing my coat off the hook near the door. Margaret didn’t say a word. She just put down her knitting and followed me out, her face drawn tight with worry.
The streets were quiet as we drove, headlights cutting through the dense fog rolling in from the river. Streetlamps glowed hazy and yellow, casting long shadows across the sidewalk. Every second felt like an hour. I kept imagining Evelyn curled up on the sofa, asleep, unaware of our panic. I prayed that’s what we’d find.
The Rasmusens' house looked normal at first. Lights on in the living room. Curtains drawn. A soft glow spilling out onto the porch. But the moment I stepped out of the car, I felt it—an unnatural stillness. No sounds of laughter, no baby crying, no movement at all. I knocked hard on the front door.
“Evelyn? You there?” I called out. Nothing. The only sound was a faint jazz tune playing on the radio inside, crackly and distant. I knocked again, louder. The baby should’ve stirred. Someone should’ve answered. My hand tightened on the doorknob. Locked.
“Try the back,” Margaret whispered.
We hurried around the side of the house, our breath hanging in the cold air. The back door was locked, too. I banged my fist against it, calling Evelyn’s name. Still nothing. I looked at the living room window—one of the side panes was cracked open. Just a few inches. “I’m going in,” I said, pushing it up farther.
“Richard, be careful,” Margaret whispered, but I was already climbing through.
My feet hit the hardwood floor with a dull thud. The air inside was cold, unnaturally so, and something was wrong. The room was in disarray. A dining chair was tipped on its side. Evelyn’s books—her schoolbooks—were strewn across the floor like they’d been knocked off the coffee table. Her eyeglasses lay near the rug, bent at the frame, one lens cracked clean through. My stomach dropped.
“Evelyn?” I called, louder now, more frantic.
I turned toward the crib. The baby was there—thank God. Sound asleep, cheeks pink with warmth. But Evelyn was nowhere. Margaret climbed in behind me and gasped when she saw the mess.
“What happened here?” she asked, her voice trembling.
I didn’t answer. I was already moving toward the hallway. The kitchen was dark, the faucet dripping. The air was still. Then I saw it. A dark stain on the hardwood, just a small drop at first. Then another. Leading toward the basement door. My breath caught in my throat.
“Margaret, stay here,” I said, though I’m not sure she heard me.
I opened the basement door. A cold, musty draft drifted up from below. I descended slowly, my hand trailing along the wall. The light down there was dim, a single bare bulb swaying slightly from the ceiling. The air smelled of damp earth and motor oil. More blood. A trail, faint but clear, leading to the far corner of the basement near the window well. There, the screen had been slashed, the window glass shoved inward. Below it, a large smear of blood, and scattered around—shoe prints. A man’s boots. And Evelyn’s smaller footprints, partially smudged.
“Richard!” Margaret’s voice echoed from above. “There’s more blood out here!”
I bolted up the stairs, two at a time. Margaret was standing near the front rug, her hand shaking as she pointed. More blood. Tiny drops, a spatter, leading toward the front door. Panic gripped me in full. I grabbed the phone, my fingers numb as I dialed the operator.
Within minutes, police sirens wailed through the fog. Red and blue lights flashed across the quiet houses. Neighbors peeked through curtains. Detective Roy Johnson was the first to arrive—a tall man with a weary expression and a sharp eye. He took one look at the house and nodded grimly.
“Tell me everything,” he said, pulling out a small notebook.
I tried to stay calm as I spoke, but my voice kept breaking. “She was supposed to call us at 8:30. She’s never late. We came here, found the house locked. Room was a mess. Blood in the basement. Her glasses are broken. And she’s gone.”
Johnson listened, his eyes scanning every corner. Margaret was holding Evelyn’s scarf in her hands, the one she’d worn earlier that day. It was still warm from her neck.
“Any enemies? Anyone who’d want to hurt her?” Johnson asked.
“No,” Margaret choked out. “She’s a sweet girl. Everyone loves her.”
The police spread out. They checked every room, every drawer. They found two distinct sets of footprints in the basement. One matched Evelyn’s. The other—larger, heavier—was unfamiliar. Outside, they followed the blood trail through the yard. It led to the sidewalk, then abruptly stopped. Like someone had dragged her into a car. No tire tracks in the fog-damp grass, but neighbors were starting to talk.
Mrs. Carter, from across the street, said she saw a light-colored car circling the block earlier. “Around 7:30, I think,” she whispered. “Looked out of place.”
“Did you see who was in it?” I asked.
“Too dark. But I heard a scream. Just for a second. Thought it was kids playing.”
Another neighbor, Ed Hofer, claimed he saw a green two-toned Buick speeding away around 8:15. “Back wheels fish-tailed on the corner. Thought the driver was drunk. Swore I saw someone in the back seat… maybe a girl.”
My heart felt like it would rip open. I wanted to chase that car, even now, hours too late. The police combed the neighborhood, knocked on every door, took statements from every witness. They sent blood samples to the lab, dusted the basement for prints. But so far—no Evelyn.
Detective Johnson pulled me aside near dawn. “Mr. Hartley,” he said gently. “You need to prepare yourself. This doesn’t look good.”
“What are you saying?” I snapped, angry now. “She’s out there. You can still find her!”
“We’re doing everything we can,” he said. “But the scene… the blood, the signs of a struggle, the car sightings… it looks like an abduction.”
I wanted to collapse. But I couldn’t. Not while she was still out there. Not while there was still a chance.
The days that followed were a nightmare. Search parties combed the woods. Police patrolled highways. The local paper ran Evelyn’s photo every day. Volunteers handed out flyers. Someone thought they saw her in St. Paul. Another tip came from a diner off Highway 35. Nothing panned out.
A week later, a farmer found a torn piece of fabric near a fence along Highway 14. It was bloodstained. Later, they found undergarments in a ditch, and a pair of shoes—Evelyn’s shoes. The soles matched prints from the basement. Then, a month later, a denim jacket was found in the woods, near a drainage culvert. Blood on the collar. It was her type.
The evidence kept piling up, and every piece was another nail in the coffin of hope. But no body. No Evelyn.
Rumors began to spread. About a man named Edward Gein from Plainfield—a strange loner, a handyman with a dark past. After he was arrested in 1957 for unspeakable crimes, people started whispering. Maybe he had something to do with Evelyn’s disappearance. Maybe he was the monster we’d all feared.
But there was no proof. Only questions. Only silence.
We never stopped looking. Never stopped hoping. Every knock at the door, every late-night call, I prayed it was her. But it never was. Sometimes I still dream of that night—of her glasses on the rug, of the baby’s quiet breathing, of the blood on the basement floor.
Who took my daughter? Why? I still ask those questions. I whisper them into the dark when sleep won’t come. And after all these years, the silence is still the only answer I get.