they clearly aren't very good at this.
I can find the place again. I know I can.
St. Stephen's Hospital, on the outskirts of Marpington, England.
“We have every available unit working on this case,” Detective Palmer tells me calmly, although I can tell from the look in his eyes that there's a 'but' coming, “but these things take time. We have a helicopter scouring the area, it's been flying almost non-stop for the past week, checking the land and -”
“So why haven't you found it?” I ask. “It's a farmhouse, with a yard, and there's this creepy little girl there! There's stuff in the yard, too, like... a truck, and old machinery. It can't be that hard to spot, even from a helicopter!”
“We're doing everything we can,” he continues, “but I need you to dig deep and try to work out if there's anything else you remember, anything that might help us tighten the search area. To be honest, this isn't the first time we've had to look for this particular farmhouse, and...” His voice trails off, as if he's not sure how to explain the situation.
“And what?” I ask. “What's so difficult about finding a goddamn farm? There are only so many that can be out there! Use infra-red cameras, or whatever the hell you need! They're out there!”
I wait for him to reply, but I can tell now that there's something he isn't telling me.
“What?” I stammer. “What's wrong?”
“I need you to stay calm,” he says cautiously, “but... There was an incident about a year ago, where a young woman was found injured in the same car-park where you were found the other day. Her story, once she recovered, was remarkably similar to everything you've been telling us, but when we searched the area...” He pauses, before finally sighing. “When we searched, we were never able to find any sign of the farmhouse she described. To be honest, a lot of us doubted that what she told us could be true, until...”
His voice trails off again.
“Until what?”
“Well, until you woke up at St. Stephen's and started telling us what had happened to you.”
Reaching into his folder, he takes out a piece of paper.
“This drawing,” he explains, “is based on the previous victim's description of the young girl. It was -”
“Let me see,” I snap, snatching the paper from his hand. I flinch as soon as I see a drawing of the girl with the deep scar running down her face.
“That's her,” I tell him. “That's the freak.”
“Are you sure? Take your -”
“Of course I'm fucking sure!” I hiss, shoving the paper back into his hands. “She's kind of distinctive, don't you think?”
He hesitate for a moment. “I'm trying to help you, Mrs. Latimer,” he says finally. “We're on the same side here.”
I open my mouth to tell him he's not doing a very good job, before finally sitting back and sighing. I know I'm starting to come across as some kind of crazy bitch, but all I can think about is Pete and Hugh out there somewhere, still trapped at the farmhouse.
“I'm sorry,” I mutter, taking a sip of water. My heart is pounding. “I know you're doing your best, it's just...” I take a deep breath. “It's hard just sitting here like this, waiting for news. Half the time, I feel as if people don't even believe me.”
“I believe you,” he replies.
I glance at him. “Are you sure?”
He nods.
“It's all true,” I add. “I know it sounds nuts, but I swear, every word of what I've told you is true.”
“Which leaves us with the question,” he continues, “of how we've managed to miss the farmhouse despite searching the area so extensively. To be blunt, Mrs. Latimer, I'm starting to think that even if that helicopter keeps flying for another month, it might not have any luck.”
“What's that supposed to mean?” I ask. Already, the anger is rippling through my chest again.
“It means we need to try another tactic.”
“You just need to tell your search teams to do a better job,” I continue.
I can find the place again. I know I can.
St. Stephen's Hospital, on the outskirts of Marpington, England.
“We have every available unit working on this case,” Detective Palmer tells me calmly, although I can tell from the look in his eyes that there's a 'but' coming, “but these things take time. We have a helicopter scouring the area, it's been flying almost non-stop for the past week, checking the land and -”
“So why haven't you found it?” I ask. “It's a farmhouse, with a yard, and there's this creepy little girl there! There's stuff in the yard, too, like... a truck, and old machinery. It can't be that hard to spot, even from a helicopter!”
“We're doing everything we can,” he continues, “but I need you to dig deep and try to work out if there's anything else you remember, anything that might help us tighten the search area. To be honest, this isn't the first time we've had to look for this particular farmhouse, and...” His voice trails off, as if he's not sure how to explain the situation.
“And what?” I ask. “What's so difficult about finding a goddamn farm? There are only so many that can be out there! Use infra-red cameras, or whatever the hell you need! They're out there!”
I wait for him to reply, but I can tell now that there's something he isn't telling me.
“What?” I stammer. “What's wrong?”
“I need you to stay calm,” he says cautiously, “but... There was an incident about a year ago, where a young woman was found injured in the same car-park where you were found the other day. Her story, once she recovered, was remarkably similar to everything you've been telling us, but when we searched the area...” He pauses, before finally sighing. “When we searched, we were never able to find any sign of the farmhouse she described. To be honest, a lot of us doubted that what she told us could be true, until...”
His voice trails off again.
“Until what?”
“Well, until you woke up at St. Stephen's and started telling us what had happened to you.”
Reaching into his folder, he takes out a piece of paper.
“This drawing,” he explains, “is based on the previous victim's description of the young girl. It was -”
“Let me see,” I snap, snatching the paper from his hand. I flinch as soon as I see a drawing of the girl with the deep scar running down her face.
“That's her,” I tell him. “That's the freak.”
“Are you sure? Take your -”
“Of course I'm fucking sure!” I hiss, shoving the paper back into his hands. “She's kind of distinctive, don't you think?”
He hesitate for a moment. “I'm trying to help you, Mrs. Latimer,” he says finally. “We're on the same side here.”
I open my mouth to tell him he's not doing a very good job, before finally sitting back and sighing. I know I'm starting to come across as some kind of crazy bitch, but all I can think about is Pete and Hugh out there somewhere, still trapped at the farmhouse.
“I'm sorry,” I mutter, taking a sip of water. My heart is pounding. “I know you're doing your best, it's just...” I take a deep breath. “It's hard just sitting here like this, waiting for news. Half the time, I feel as if people don't even believe me.”
“I believe you,” he replies.
I glance at him. “Are you sure?”
He nods.
“It's all true,” I add. “I know it sounds nuts, but I swear, every word of what I've told you is true.”
“Which leaves us with the question,” he continues, “of how we've managed to miss the farmhouse despite searching the area so extensively. To be blunt, Mrs. Latimer, I'm starting to think that even if that helicopter keeps flying for another month, it might not have any luck.”
“What's that supposed to mean?” I ask. Already, the anger is rippling through my chest again.
“It means we need to try another tactic.”
“You just need to tell your search teams to do a better job,” I continue.
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