"Bodom: That Summer We Didn't Come Back":
I was supposed to be there that night. The summer of 1960, my friends—Seppo, Nils, Tuulikki, and Maila—planned a camping trip by Lake Bodom, a quiet spot outside Helsinki, about 14 miles from the city. It was their big plan, a weekend to escape, just the four of them, two couples in love, best friends who did everything together. They begged me to come along. I can still hear Seppo’s voice over the phone, full of that contagious excitement he always had. “Come on, it’s gonna be perfect,” he said. “Fishing, swimming, a fire under the stars. You’re missing out.”
“I’ve got work,” I told him, hating the words as they came out. “Boss won’t let me off. You guys have fun, though. Tell me everything when you get back.”
“Everything?” he teased. “Even when Nils tries to impress Tuulikki and falls in the lake?”
I laughed. “Especially that. Take pictures.”
“Will do,” he said. “You’ll wish you were there.” His voice was so light, so sure the weekend would be nothing but good times. I hung up, picturing them packing their gear—fishing rods, a small radio, a cooler with sandwiches and drinks, and that old green tent they’d borrowed from Seppo’s dad. They were young, 15 to 18, full of life, ready for a summer adventure by the lake’s clear water, surrounded by tall pines and soft grass. I try to hold onto that image now, the one where they’re happy, because what happened next haunts me every day.
They drove out that Saturday, June 4, 1960, in Seppo’s beat-up car, the kind that rattled but always got you there. I imagine them singing along to the radio, windows down, the girls in the back giggling over something silly. When they reached the lake, they picked a spot close to the shore, where the ground was flat and the water sparkled. The tent was small, barely big enough for four, but they didn’t care. They set it up, hammering stakes into the soft earth, joking the whole time. I can see Nils, tall and lanky, pretending he knew what he was doing, while Seppo called him out. “You’re gonna collapse the whole thing, genius,” he might’ve said, tossing a rope at him.
“Shut up, I’ve got this,” Nils probably shot back, grinning. Tuulikki and Maila would’ve been nearby, unpacking the cooler or gathering sticks for a fire. “Boys, stop arguing and help with this,” Tuulikki might’ve called, her voice playful but firm. She was like that, always keeping things moving. Maila, quieter, would’ve smiled, maybe teasing, “I’m not eating burnt fish again, Seppo.”
They spent the evening like that, I’m sure. They fished off the shore, probably catching nothing but laughing about it. They built a fire as the light faded, the flames flickering against the dark water. I picture them sitting on blankets, passing around sandwiches, the radio playing some old tune. “This is the life,” Seppo might’ve said, leaning back, one arm around Maila. “No school, no work, just us and the lake.”
“Till the bugs eat us alive,” Maila might’ve replied, swatting at her arm. “Why didn’t we bring bug spray?”
“Cause you said you’re tough,” Nils teased, and they all laughed. That’s how it was with them—easy, warm, like nothing could go wrong. They stayed up late, telling stories, maybe joking about scary things in the woods, not knowing the real horror was coming. When they finally crawled into the tent, they were tired, happy, curled up close in their sleeping bags, the sound of the lake lulling them to sleep.
But sometime between four and six in the morning, everything changed. Someone came to their camp. Not a bear, not a storm—a person. Someone with a knife, maybe a club, and a heart cold enough to destroy everything. The tent was slashed open, the canvas ripped like paper. Inside, it was chaos. Seppo, Tuulikki, and Maila were dead—stabbed, beaten, their bodies crumpled in the dark. Blood soaked the sleeping bags, the ground, the walls of the tent. Nils was outside, barely alive, his face a mess of bruises, his jaw broken, blood matting his hair. He was alive, but just barely.
I didn’t know until later that day. I was at work, stacking boxes in a warehouse, when a friend called, his voice tight. “You heard about the lake?” he said.
“What about it?” I asked, already feeling a knot in my gut.
“Seppo, Tuulikki, Maila… they’re gone. Someone attacked them. Nils is in the hospital. It’s bad.”
I froze, the phone heavy in my hand. “Gone? What do you mean, gone?”
“Dead,” he said, and I heard him choke on the word. “They’re dead.”
I don’t remember hanging up. I don’t remember leaving work. I just know I was at the hospital, pushing through people, needing to see Nils, needing answers. He was in a bed, his face swollen, one eye half-closed, bandages everywhere. He looked small, not like the Nils who’d wrestle Seppo for fun or brag about his fishing skills. “I don’t know what happened,” he whispered when I leaned close. “I woke up, and… there was someone. A shadow, moving fast. I tried to fight, but then it’s blank. Just pain.”
“Did you see them?” I asked, my voice shaking. “Who was it?”
He shook his head, wincing. “It was dark. I saw… eyes, maybe. Bright, like they were burning. But I don’t know. It’s all fuzzy.” The doctors said it was shock, trauma messing with his head. No ghosts, no demons—just a person who did this. That made it worse. A human could tear through my friends like that, leave them broken, and walk away.
The police were swarming the hospital, asking Nils the same questions, but he had nothing clear to give. They went to the lake, but the scene was a mess. People from nearby had come to help after a passerby found Nils, but they’d trampled the ground, ruining footprints, smearing any clues. The tent was a horror show—torn open, blood everywhere, like someone had unleashed all their rage inside. They found Nils’s shoes half a mile away, tossed in the bushes, stained with blood—not his, but the others’. No knife, no club, no clear tracks. Just questions.
I went to the lake a few days later. I had to see it, even though my hands shook the whole drive. The tent was still there, cordonedオフ with police tape, but the tape was loose, flapping like it didn’t matter. The ground was churned up, grass flattened where people had walked. The lake looked too calm, too perfect, like it was mocking what happened. I stood by the water, staring at the spot where they’d laughed just days before. I could almost hear their voices, but then I’d see the tent—ripped, stained, wrong. My chest tightened, and I wanted to scream, to demand the lake tell me who did this. But it was silent.
The town was alive with whispers. Everyone had a theory. Some pointed to Karl, a local who lived near the lake. He was a mean drunk, always starting fights, and someone said he’d mumbled something about the murders, like he knew too much. “I heard him at the bar,” a neighbor told me once. “He said, ‘They shouldn’t have been out there.’ Sounded guilty to me.” But his wife swore he was home, and the police couldn’t pin him. Others talked about a strange man seen in town that morning, clothes bloody, who went to a hospital nearby. “Said he cut himself working,” a nurse told me, skeptical. “But that much blood? I don’t know.” He had an alibi, though, and it held up.
Then there were the wilder stories—jealous exes, drifters, even someone saying it was a soldier from a nearby base. Nothing stuck. The police chased every lead, but the case went cold. No arrests, no answers. Just my friends, gone, and Nils left to carry the scars.
I couldn’t stay away from the lake. A year later, I went back, alone, thinking maybe I’d feel something, find some closure. The tent was gone, the ground grown over, but the place felt heavy. I walked to the shore, my boots sinking in the soft dirt. The water was still, reflecting the trees like a mirror. I stood there, remembering Seppo’s laugh, Maila’s shy smile, Tuulikki’s quick wit. Then I felt it—a prickle on my neck, like someone was watching. I turned, scanning the trees. Nothing. Just shadows. But then, a rustle, a glimpse of movement—someone, or something, slipping behind a pine. “Who’s there?” I called, my voice louder than I meant. No answer. Just the lake, lapping softly. I backed away, heart hammering, telling myself it was an animal, a trick of the light. But I didn’t go back for years.
In 2004, the case came alive again. The police arrested Nils. They said new tests on his shoes showed blood patterns that made him a suspect. Maybe he’d snapped, they said, maybe a fight went wrong. I visited him in jail, his face lined, eyes tired. “I didn’t do it,” he said, gripping the table between us. “They were my family. You know me. You know I couldn’t.” I wanted to believe him. I did believe him. The trial was a blur—lawyers, evidence, arguments about blood and shoes. In 2005, they let him go. The evidence wasn’t enough. He was free, but the whispers followed him. Some still think he did it. I don’t. But I don’t know what to think anymore.
Now, decades later, I still drive by the lake sometimes. I don’t stop, not anymore. I just look at the water, so calm, so beautiful, hiding what it saw. Seppo, Tuulikki, and Maila are still there, in my head, laughing by the fire. I hear their voices, see their faces. And I wonder—who was out there that night? Someone they knew? A stranger with a knife and a reason no one understands? The lake knows, but it’s not telling. Every ripple, every shadow in the trees, feels like a secret. And every time I pass by, I feel it again—the fear, the loss, the truth, still buried somewhere in that water.
"The Last Shift":
I worked the late shift with Donna at the Sierra Tahoe Casino in South Lake Tahoe. It was September 6, 1970, and the casino buzzed with energy. Slot machines chimed, glasses clinked, and laughter echoed from the bar. Donna, a nurse with a warm smile, manned the front desk, checking in guests. Her blonde hair was pinned neatly, and she wore a crisp navy dress that made her look professional but kind. She’d been my friend for a year, always talking about saving up to travel, maybe to Europe. I dealt cards at the blackjack table, glancing at her between hands. She looked tired, her eyes heavy, but she kept that smile. Around 1 a.m., she leaned over and whispered, “One more hour, then I’m crashing.” I nodded, grinning. By 2 a.m., the crowd had thinned, and I saw her grab her purse, wave goodbye, and slip out the glass doors into the night. That was the last time I saw her.
The next morning, Donna didn’t show for her shift. I called her apartment, letting it ring ten times. No answer. My stomach knotted. Donna was never late, always the first to arrive, coffee in hand. I finished my shift, my hands shaky as I shuffled cards, then drove to her place. Her apartment was in a quiet complex near the lake, surrounded by tall pines. The water glinted in the distance, calm and endless. Her blue Chevy was parked outside, but the driver’s side window was cracked open, which felt odd. I knocked on her door. Nothing. I turned the knob, and it opened. My heart sank. Donna always locked up.
Inside, the apartment was tidy but felt wrong. Her coat hung on the rack, her keys sat on the kitchen counter, and a half-empty mug of tea rested on the coffee table, the bag still steeping. A stack of folded laundry—nurse scrubs and sweaters—sat on the couch. In the bedroom, her bed was made, but the bathroom light was on. Her toothbrush was wet, bristles splayed, and a tube of toothpaste lay uncapped. It was like she’d been interrupted mid-routine. I called her sister, Mary, in San Francisco.
“Mary, it’s me. Donna didn’t come to work. Her door’s unlocked, and her car’s here.”
Mary’s voice cracked. “She called me last night, said she was beat but fine. Have you tried her friends?”
“No one’s heard from her. I’m standing in her apartment. It’s too quiet.”
“Call the police,” Mary said. “I’m driving up. I’ll be there by tonight.”
I hung up and dialed the police. Officer Jenkins arrived, a tall man with a notepad and a calm voice. He walked through the apartment, his boots creaking on the hardwood.
“Anything missing?” he asked, eyeing the open bathroom cabinet.
“Her purse is gone,” I said. “But her keys, car, everything else is here.”
He crouched by the coffee table, noting the tea. “When did you last see her?”
“Last night, 2 a.m. She left the casino. I saw this guy a few nights ago, though, hanging around the parking lot. Dark coat, glasses, maybe 30. He just… watched.”
Jenkins’s eyes narrowed. “Description?”
“Medium height, thin. Horn-rimmed glasses. Stood by the streetlight, didn’t move.”
He scribbled it down. “We’ll file a report. Stay out of here. And lock your doors.”
I left, my chest tight. Back at my apartment, I double-checked my locks, but sleep didn’t come. The next day, Mary arrived, her face pale. We went to the police station together. Detective Conner, a gruff man with deep-set eyes, met us in a cramped office.
“No leads yet,” he said, flipping through a file. “Her car’s clean, no prints. We’re checking the casino staff, guests, anyone who was there.”
Mary clutched her purse. “She wouldn’t just leave. Someone took her.”
“We’re doing what we can,” Conner said. “Any enemies? Boyfriends?”
I shook my head. “She was friendly, kept to herself. No drama.”
Conner leaned forward. “You mentioned a man. Seen him since?”
“No,” I said, “but he gave me a bad feeling.”
Days turned into weeks. The police found nothing—no witnesses, no trace of Donna. At the casino, rumors spread like wildfire. A bartender mentioned a killer called the Cipher, a name from the San Francisco papers. He’d murdered people, sent coded letters to newspapers, and bragged about it. One article said he’d mailed a postcard claiming a victim in Tahoe. My skin crawled. I tried to focus on work, but every shadow made me jump.
One night, I stayed late to help Mary search Donna’s apartment again. We sifted through drawers, hoping for a clue. Mary held up a photo of Donna at the lake, laughing in a red dress, her hair catching the light.
“She loved this place,” Mary said, tears falling. “Why her?”
“I don’t know,” I said, my throat tight. I pulled a newspaper from my bag, showing sketches of the Cipher. “This is the guy I saw. I think.”
Mary gasped. “The glasses, the hair—it’s close. You told the police?”
“Yeah, but they need more.”
We left, locking the door. Driving home, I noticed a car behind me, its headlights too bright. It followed me for miles, turning when I did. I gripped the wheel, my pulse racing, and sped up. The car fell back, then vanished. I didn’t sleep that night.
Two weeks later, I found a note slipped under my apartment door. Scrawled in black ink, it read, “Stop looking, or you’re next.” My hands trembled as I called Detective Conner.
“You sure it’s not a prank?” he asked, examining the note at my kitchen table.
“Who would do this?” I said, my voice shaking. “It’s him, the Cipher.”
Conner sighed. “We’ll dust for prints. Get a deadbolt. Don’t go out alone.”
I installed a deadbolt and bought mace, keeping it in my purse. At the casino, I scanned every face, wondering if he was there, blending in. One night, closing up, I saw him again—dark coat, glasses, standing across the street under a flickering light. He didn’t move, just stared. I fumbled for my keys, my breath shallow. When I looked up, he was gone. I quit the casino the next week, too scared to stay.
Fear followed me. I moved to a new apartment, but the feeling of being watched never left. One evening, I found a mark on my door—a circle with a cross, scratched into the wood. It matched the Cipher’s symbol from the papers. I called Conner, who sent officers to check, but they found nothing. “Could be a copycat,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction.
Months passed, then years. Donna’s case went cold. Mary and I called each other, but hope faded. In 1986, hikers found a skull near Lake Tahoe, buried in the dirt by the shore. It wasn’t until 2023 that DNA confirmed it was Donna’s. I read the news, sitting at my kitchen table, the same table where I’d opened that threatening note decades ago. The police never proved it was the Cipher, but that symbol, that note, the man in the dark coat—they’re burned into me. He was real, human, and out there, maybe still watching. That’s what keeps me awake, even now, the lake’s quiet beauty hiding something I’ll never unsee.
"The Last Voyage of the Mittie Stephens":
I stood on the deck of the Mittie Stephens, the steamboat’s paddlewheels thumping against the dark water of Caddo Lake. The air carried the earthy scent of the lake mixed with the faint sweetness of hay bales stacked high near the bow. Families milled about, their voices blending into a low hum—men talking about trade in Jefferson, women fussing over children who darted between crates and barrels. A few passengers leaned over the railing, pointing at the cypress trees draped in Spanish moss, their gnarled branches reaching out like fingers over the water. It was February 11, 1869, and we’d left Shreve’s Port that afternoon, bound for Jefferson, Texas. I’d never been on a steamboat before, and the steady churn of the engine felt like the pulse of something alive, carrying me toward a new chapter.
A man stood nearby, his worn hat tilted back, wiping sweat from his brow despite the evening chill. He introduced himself as Thomas, a merchant heading to sell cotton. “Big load on this boat,” he said, nodding toward the hay bales, their edges glowing faintly under the light of the fire baskets—iron cages burning wood to guide the ship through the dark. “Makes me nervous, all that hay so close to the flames.”
I glanced at the baskets, their orange glow casting flickering shadows on the deck. “The crew’s got it under control,” I said, trying to sound confident. “They’ve done this route plenty of times.”
Thomas raised an eyebrow, his gaze lingering on the hay. “Maybe. But fire’s no friend to a boat like this.”
I brushed off the unease creeping into my chest and wandered toward the main cabin. Inside, the air was warmer, thick with the smell of tobacco and polished wood. A woman in a blue dress sat on a bench, her two boys—maybe six and eight—sprawled across her lap. She was telling them a story, her voice soft but clear. “And the fish was so big, it nearly tipped the boat!” The boys laughed, their eyes wide, kicking their legs in excitement. I smiled, leaning against a post, the rhythm of the paddlewheels lulling me.
Near the cabin door, two crew members stood, their voices low but sharp. “I told the captain we shouldn’t stack the hay so close to the baskets,” one said, his face tight. “One spark, and this whole boat’s done for.”
The other, older, with a graying beard, shook his head. “You worry too much, Ben. We’re almost to Swanson’s Landing. Just keep an eye on it.”
My stomach twisted, Thomas’s words echoing in my mind. I stepped outside, needing air. The night had settled in, the lake a black mirror reflecting the fire baskets’ glow. The boat moved steadily through Twelve Mile Bayou, the water narrow and lined with cypress trees, their roots clawing into the muddy banks. I found a spot near the stern, watching the ripples spread behind us. The steady thump of the paddlewheels and the murmur of voices—passengers chatting, a baby crying somewhere—felt almost peaceful. I closed my eyes, letting the motion of the boat ease my nerves.
Then a shout shattered the calm. “Fire!” A man’s voice, raw with panic, came from the bow. My eyes snapped open. An orange glow bloomed near the hay bales, brighter than the fire baskets, flames licking up the stacks like hungry tongues. Smoke curled into the air, sharp and acrid. People screamed, their footsteps pounding on the wooden deck. I stood frozen, my heart slamming against my ribs, watching the fire spread faster than I could’ve imagined.
“Get to the lifeboats!” the captain shouted from somewhere near the wheelhouse. His voice was steady but strained, cutting through the growing chaos. Smoke poured across the deck, stinging my eyes and throat. I coughed, stumbling forward, my hands gripping the railing for balance. The crowd surged, people shoving past, some clutching bags or coats, others empty-handed, faces pale with fear.
The woman in the blue dress pushed through the chaos, her voice piercing the air. “My boys! Henry! James! Where are you?” Her eyes were wild, her hands clawing at the air as if she could pull her children from the smoke. A man in a vest grabbed her arm. “They’re probably at the lifeboats, ma’am. Come with me!”
She yanked free, her voice breaking. “I can’t leave them! They were right here!” She turned, disappearing into the thickening smoke, calling their names.
I pushed forward, my chest tight, the heat from the flames pressing against my skin. The fire had reached the wooden railing now, crackling as it devoured the dry boards. A child’s cry caught my ear, and I turned to see a girl, no older than six, standing alone near a barrel, tears streaming down her soot-streaked face. Her dress was torn, her hands trembling. “Mama!” she sobbed.
I knelt beside her, my voice shaking. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you. Stay with me.” I scooped her up, her small body light but trembling against my chest. She buried her face in my shoulder, her sobs muffled.
The deck lurched suddenly, and a deafening boom shook the air. The gunpowder. I’d overheard the crew earlier, talking about barrels stored below for the Union troops’ payroll. The explosion threw me to my knees, the girl still in my arms. Wood splintered somewhere behind us, and the boat tilted sharply to one side. Screams filled the air, louder now, mixed with the roar of the flames and the groan of the ship’s frame.
I scrambled up, clutching the girl, my legs unsteady on the slanting deck. “Hold on tight,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the chaos. Smoke choked the air, so thick I could barely see. I stumbled toward the railing, where a lifeboat was being lowered. A crowd pressed around it, people shouting, hands grabbing at the ropes. “There’s no room!” a man yelled, his voice desperate. I saw the lifeboat tip, then flip, spilling everyone into the black water below. Their screams turned to gurgles as the lake swallowed them.
The ship tilted again, the deck sloping so steeply I had to grip the railing to keep from sliding. The fire was everywhere now, flames climbing the cabin walls, the heat unbearable. I knew the water was my only chance. I climbed over the railing, the girl clinging to my neck, her small hands digging into my skin. “Don’t let go,” I said, my voice hoarse. I took a breath and jumped.
The cold hit like a wall, stealing my breath, the lake’s icy grip pulling at my clothes. I kicked hard, keeping the girl’s head above water, her sobs faint against the roar of the fire behind us. The Mittie Stephens burned in the distance, its silhouette glowing red against the night, flames dancing on the water’s surface. People thrashed around us, some calling for help, others silent, their shapes sinking into the dark.
My arms burned, the girl’s weight dragging at me, but I kept swimming, my eyes fixed on the faint outline of cypress trees ahead. The shore felt impossibly far, the water heavy, like it was fighting to pull us under. “We’re almost there,” I gasped, more to myself than to her. My legs ached, my lungs screaming, but I couldn’t stop. The girl’s grip tightened, her small voice whimpering, “I’m scared.”
“I know,” I said, my teeth chattering. “But we’re going to make it.”
I don’t know how long I swam. Time blurred, each stroke a battle against the cold and the weight of the water. My feet finally brushed mud, and I staggered forward, collapsing onto the bank. The girl clung to me, shivering, her wet hair plastered to her face. I wrapped my arms around her, trying to warm her, my own body shaking uncontrollably.
I looked back at the lake. The Mittie Stephens was gone, just a faint glow beneath the water, like a dying ember. The screams had faded, replaced by an eerie quiet, broken only by the lapping of the lake against the shore. A few others had made it to the bank, their faces blank, some sobbing, others staring at the water. The woman in the blue dress wasn’t there. I kept hearing her voice in my head, calling for her boys, Henry and James.
We sat there, huddled together, until a fishing boat found us at dawn. They pulled us aboard, wrapping blankets around us. The girl’s mother hadn’t made it. Neither had her father. I learned later that over sixty people died that night, trapped by the fire or drowned in the cold, black water.
Years later, I went to Jefferson, Texas. In a small museum, I found the ship’s bell, salvaged from the wreck. It sat on a wooden stand, polished and gleaming, a silent witness to that night. I stood there, my chest tight, the memories rushing back—the crackle of flames, the woman’s screams, the cold grip of the lake. The girl I saved was grown now, living with relatives somewhere in Texas. But the lake still held the others, their voices locked in its depths, and I knew I’d never forget the weight of that night.
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