Lips Sealed

Prologue

The camera was jerky in the hands of the amateur. As the duo of men trudged through the thick snow, the screen focused in and out roughly. Unsteady hands attempted to focus on a dark cabin in the distance. Snow trickled down from the sky, blowing parts of the camera every so often. It layered lightly overtop the seven inches of snow already blanketing the ground. In the bottom corner of the camera screen was 3.1.12. 8:12 p.m.

The two men breathed heavily as they struggled through the condensed mixture of ice and snow. A soundtrack of loud crunches played as the top layer of ice cracked through with each footstep. Soft grunts from the men mixed into the background noise. 

“Man, Sheryl is going to be amazed.” The man to the right said softly, admiring the large fish he held in his hands. The cameraman angled the lens onto the large salmon.

“You lucked out, Bruce, you really did.” The cameraman said enviously. “I can’t believe I didn’t catch a single damn fish.”

Steadily the cabin loomed closer and closer as the men approached their shelter. Small and built of pine wood, the sturdy hut provided much welcomed protection against the winter wind. The roof was weighed down with snow, and small footprints decorated an intricate path around the front lawn from wildlife.

As the camera neared the porch, the blurry image cleared enough to show the front door hanging wide open. Snow had blown into the doorway, already building a fine layer inside of the house. The two men stopped upon noticing this abnormality.

“Bruce…” The cameraman said quietly, “Did your wife leave the door open before she left for the market?”

The camera moved over to the partner’s face hidden behind a thick layering of protection. The furry outline of his hood mixed with his light brown facial hair, making it difficult to discern where his mouth was. 

Hesitantly, Bruce shook his head, “She didn’t leave for the market. The truck is still there.” He pointed behind him in the background to where a red pick-up lingered half covered by the snow. “Did the door swing open from the wind?”

“It couldn’t have. It swings outward.”

Bruce swallowed nervously. He took a cautious step onto the porch, peering into the doorway. “Sheryl? Baby, you in here?”

The cameraman took a fearful step backwards.

“Sheryl?” Bruce took a step into the household, disappearing completely. Presumably realizing he needed to protect his partner, the cameraman walked the few steps until he was now on the porch. He peered the camera into the house, being greeted with complete darkness. 

“Bruce?” The cameraman called in a shaky voice, “Sheryl? Is this some kind of joke? It’s not funny.”

He took another step into the house. A clicking sounded on the side, followed by a curse muttered by the cameraman. “Lights are out.” He mumbled the first logical explanation that came to him.

“Alright you two,” He called out into the darkness of the house, “Very funny. Try to scare Doug; yeah he’ll fall for it. But guess what? I’m not going to. You can come out any time now. We need to get the power back on to cook the fi—”

Something crashed onto the ground with a loud thud. Doug swallowed loudly, taking a step back out the doorway. Light reflected off the camera lens as he slowly walked out of the cabin. “This isn’t funny you guys.”

His voice lost the confidence it held in his previous attempts at coaxing his friends out of their hiding places.

A low, deep-throated growl bubbled up through the white-noise made by the wintry wind howling outside, followed by a squeak from the cameraman. The screen became jerkier as his hands shook. 

“What the hell is that?!”

The screen blurred as the camera flew into the air, landing hard on the tough snow. A scream from Doug pierced the sound mixing with the threatening growl that had occurred earlier. Doug’s gloved hand appeared in the restricted view of the camera, jerking a twisting as his screams continued. 

“Oh God—Oh please—Somebody—” He was cut off abruptly. 

The hand was frozen in mid-air before falling limply onto the ground. A few seconds later, it was pulled out of view. 

The whiteness of the snow filled the screen as silence played in the background, save for the howling winds.

The screen cut back to Mark Douglass, the anchorman. 

He straightened in his chair, looking up from his papers and into the camera.

 “The video camera was discovered six days later with no sign of either of them. Police searched the cabin for the three missing people with no luck. Their belongings still remained in the house; nothing appeared to have been taken.

“The wood along the doors and the glass of the windows was intact, showing no signs of a forced entry. A few drops of blood were found by the sink inside the cabin, and tests confirmed it to belong to Sheryl McLaughlin.

“Anyone with news of the whereabouts of Sheryl and Bruce McLaughlin or Doug Parson should contact the police immediately.”

An image appeared in the upper right corner of Mark Douglass’s head of the American flag. The anchorman looked into a different camera from a new angle for his next story.

“In bright news, the American economy has taken a much desired boost. Stocks have risen on an average of ten percent.”

Mark continued with his story, but Officer Taylor Carlson wasn’t interested in the stock market, or the weather, or any other irrelevant section. He was concerned with how the media was dealing with the mysterious disappearances. This was the third report in four months. 

Carlson ran a hand over his balding head, breathing out a sigh of irritation. This case would surely be the death of him. 

He stood up slowly, grimacing at the ache in his knee joints. Age was taking a good beating on him. Slowly, the older man walked over to the window, staring out into the cold, white world outside. The sun shined brightly outside, but despite that the temperatures were still in the low teens. The snow sparkled brightly on the ground before him. 

“Taylor, you still worried about those people?” A voice called from behind. Carlson didn’t need to turn to know that it was his partner in crime, Jimmy Morrison.

Carlson shrugged, “This isn’t the first time a group of three has gone missing. It’s occurring more frequently.”

“You need to relax, old man. Go home and spend time with your daughter.” Jimmy patted his friend on the back encouragingly, “You’re worrying too much about this. We’ll catch the douche, eventually.”

“It’s that ‘eventually’ that I don’t like.” Carlson growled. 

“It’s Friday night. You’ve been working late all week. Go grab a pizza and have dinner with your daughter.”

Carlson sighed, leaning back from the window. 

“Whoever is responsible for this will still be here Monday morning.” Jimmy made a pathetic attempt at reassuring his partner. “I’ll see you bright and early then.”

The older man nodded, pulling away from his friend to grab his jacket and keys. “I’ll see you at seven o’clock sharp Monday morning.”

Jimmy groaned, “Seven?”

“Seven.” 

“Can’t we make it eight?” Sometimes Carlson found that his partner acted younger than his daughter. 

“It’s seven.”

“Seven-thirty?”

Carlson gave him a sharp look, “Do you want to make it six?”

The last thing Carlson saw before he left was Jimmy giving him the bird. He closed the door, chuckling to himself. 

He could always count on Jimmy Morrison to distract him from his thoughts of the disappearances.