Calling Blackrock Hollow a “Town” was something of an overstatement. Even in its heyday it was little more than a one-road hamlet. Back then it was quite the getaway spot and the local leadership worked very hard to maintain that status. They knew they were on to something with that kind of tourism.
Now, though, the place was in danger of becoming a modern ghost town. It felt very much like the locals were determined not to rekindle interest in the area, but rather to ensure that whatever had been going on would not be allowed to continue. They had adopted a siege mentality and were stuck fighting a holding action. It seemed as though they couldn’t see how self-defeating that was.
As such only about half of the businesses on the main strip were open. A general store, a bank, the local cafe… Just the necessities.
I used the walk to the cafe as an opportunity to review what I had learned about Blackrock Hollow in case I overheard something relevant while I had my meal.
Food of this kind wasn’t what could be considered nourishing in my case, but I couldn’t pass up the chance to learn more about what this town had gone through. Even the tiniest tidbit of information could end up revealing an important element.
I had begun to backtrack the case online to find that the first modern case involved the disappearance of a nine-year-old girl named Rebecca Morris. I say modern but this took place in the summer of 1963.
Rebecca had been part of an overnight camping trip for the local children. The group consisted of four chaperones and twenty-two kids aged eight to thirteen. Somehow Rebecca had managed to get separated from the group just after their camp had been set up when she went to relieve herself. Apparently the four adults, all in their late teens and early twenties, had been too involved with whatever they were up to to provide Rebecca an escort.
It was about an hour later when the evening meal was ready that they finally realized that Rebecca was nowhere to be found. The chaperones had done a headcount before the entire group began searching the area for her. After another hour, with the sun now well beyond the horizon, one of the chaperones was sent back to Blackrock Hollow for help.
The sheriff had assembled the entire town to go on the search for Rebecca. After searching for three days and nights the size of the search party began to dwindle. Even with the assistance of the state police and other nearby agencies it was a whole month before any sign of Rebecca had been found. It was not a good sign. All that was found was Rebecca’s jacket which had been shredded and stained with dried blood. It was clear that she had been mauled and likely eaten by either a bear or, more likely, a mountain lion.
The event had absolutely devastated Rebecca’s parents, Jack and Gwen Morris. Though they never divorced, their marriage didn’t survive the experience.
Jack was able to at least go through the motions of getting on with life. He went back to work as the local mechanic, but it was clear that he had become distant. He rarely spoke to anyone unless it was business related in some way. Beyond that no one could get through to him.
Gwen had retreated from public life entirely. No more Women’s Rotary, no more informal gatherings, and especially no more PTA. After all, what was the point? The locals would learn later that she had taken to sleeping in Rebecca’s room, leaving their bedroom to Jack, alone. They would also learn that Jack never stopped loving Gwen.
It was the following summer that the chaperones from Rebecca’s last camp out began to disappear.
It became known locally as The Long July. Each week one of that group of chaperones would go missing.
Jack was questioned immediately, and even held in custody at the sheriff’s office for nearly a week after the second chaperone went missing.
Naturally the whole town had turned against him. They would taunt and heckle Jack when they had business with the sheriff, or, when business hours had concluded for the day, they would pound on the jail wall, break the glass out of the barred window, shoot water or urine through the broken window… Jack barely slept that whole week.
Then, come Friday morning, they learned that the third chaperone had gone missing. Jack was released just before noon and, according to reports, he went to his repair shop to find that both it and his truck had been burned. Upon seeing this he made his way home on foot. He and Gwen lived about a mile of the main strip. On his way no one would make eye contact with him. After entering his house no one saw Jack again.
Eight days later the last chaperone, Alison Harding, emerged from the woods covered in blood with a haunted look on her face. After receiving medical attention, and once her hysteria had subsided, she told the sheriff that Gwen had taken her into the woods and tried to kill her. After suffering several stab wounds Alison had managed to turn the tables on Gwen by shattering her cranium with a stone.
Alison also told the sheriff that Gwen had the other three dead chaperones on display around them and where Gwen’s body, and the others, could be found.
While Alison was telling her tale to the sheriff, one of the deputies was sent to collect Jack so that he could be informed as to what was going on. The deputy returned with a single sheet of paper that had been torn from a notebook. He told the sheriff that Jack was not at home, but the deputy had found this note on the kitchen table.
It read, I’m sorry, Jack. I have to do this for Rebecca.
Alison had confirmed that Jack was not involved with her ordeal so he was off the hook. A search of the Morris home had turned up nothing. There was not a single clue as to where Jack might have gone.
However, once the sheriff and several deputies had found the area Alison had directed them too, they found no bodies. It was clear, though, that this is where the murders had taken place because of the four blood-soaked areas on the ground. Either someone had removed the bodies or they were taken by animals. The issue was that there were no drag marks on the ground which would seem to indicate that someone had disposed of the evidence.
A search of the area revealed nothing. That was 1964.
From 1966 to 1980 there were several missing person cases involving a fraternity campout, assorted hunting parties, a group of camp counselors, executives on a team building excursion, those sorts of things. In every case the searches reveal no bodies, but blood soaked ground was a familiar find. Such ground also was the most anyone could find in the way of evidence as well, apart from said ground showing the occasional sign of a struggle.
The one exception was when Jack Morris’ wallet was found with his driver’s licence, money, pictures of Rebecca and Gwen, and one wallet-sized portrait of the whole family. Additionally, under his wallet was his keyring with keys to his truck, house, and shop.
In 1983 a real estate mogul managed enough payoffs to get the okay to build a country club and golf course in the area. Even in the face of two decades of disappearances, money speaks louder than words. In this case it spoke louder than reason.
Everything was fine for a week, just long enough for anyone working on the site to get comfortable.
Once a significant amount of ground had been cleared for the coming construction the last group of eight workers were getting ready to leave for the day, but they never did. Again, there were areas of blood soaked ground and even evidence of three spots where struggles had ensued. Otherwise no definitive evidence was discovered after a thorough search of the area.
You’ve got to hand it to the real estate mogul, one Roger Blunt, because the next week he showed up, himself, with a crew to remove any remaining equipment using a bullhorn to direct the crew as to what stays and what goes. He announced that his crew was to remove all the heavy equipment, but most of the building material, which was mostly lumber and concrete for foundations, would be left behind. This time there was no incident.
At this point one thing started to become clear; Whoever, or whatever, was out here was in some way territorial.
It starts with a single compromise when you're desperate to feed your crying baby. It ends with the genocide of your best friends.
The Man In The High Castle is fiction. The slippery slope is not.
First we mock an idiot from the comments for being an idiot, then we talk about a statement from Donald Trump that demands we surrender if we don't get our way.
And it's not going to stop. They'll keep blaming Trump, but the fact is, he had nothing to do with it, and at this point the blame doesn't matter. It's all evil and needs to be stopped.
Nobody is standing up for you. We don't have the weight to make anything happen, and those that do aren't doing shit to help you.
The Prime Directive in Star Trek has some advantages in the real world, but there are also drawbacks. This is a small exploration of a very large topic.
What if we mandated that every adult in America had a gun?
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