Plastic grocery bags, trash bags, paper bags, all tied at the top with string or twine. They hung from the rafters like strange fruit. They were stacked against the walls in careful rows. They filled every corner, every space, leaving only a narrow path through the center. Tob moved forward slowly, his heart beating faster. Each bag had something written on it in black marker. Dates, his mother’s handwriting, neat and precise. 1967 March 1973 November 1981 July 1989 December on and on.
Dozens of them maybe hundreds. Some bags looked newer. The plastic still relatively clear. Others had yellowed with age. The writing faded but still legible. What the hell was this? Tob reached for the nearest bag, one labeled 1967 March. The string came loose easily. He opened it and looked inside. Newspaper clippings, dozens of them, all neatly cut out and folded. He pulled one out and unfolded it carefully. Local girl missing, read the headline. Search continues for Sarah Mitchum.
The article was from the Cooper’s Bend Gazette, dated March 15th, 1967. It described how Sarah Mitchum, 17 years old, had vanished after school. Her car was found at the edge of the woods outside town. Keys still in the ignition. No signs of struggle. No note, no witnesses. Toby read through several more clippings from the same bag, updates on the search, interviews with Sarah’s parents, an article about a candlelight vigil. Then a few months later, a final piece stating that the investigation had gone cold, that Sarah was presumed to have run away.
But runaway where? And why would his mother collect every article about it? He opened another bag. This one labeled 1973 November. More clippings, this time about a young man named David Chen, who disappeared after his shift at the grocery store. His bicycle was found in a ditch. Same pattern. Search, investigation, no leads. Case went cold. Tob’s hands started to shake. He opened a third bag, then a fourth. Each one the same. Each one documenting a missing person from Cooper’s bend.
Different years, different people, but always the same careful collection of articles, the same meticulous recordkeeping. His mother had been collecting these for decades since before he was born. She documented every disappearance, every unanswered question, every case that faded from public memory. Why, Dad? Emma’s voice drifted up from below. What are you doing? Toby quickly stuffed the clippings back into the bag and tied it shut. His mind was racing. Just looking around, he called down. Lots of old junk up here.
