Second Chances

The Disappearance of Marisol Birch from Elbow Road

A gray dreary mist blanketing the trees and grass stared back at me as I looked over the lake — everything soaked—the aspect of Autumn I dislike. I favor the cool crisp blue skies with the orange, red, yellow, and gold of the changing leaves.

With Halloween a day away, I realized the holiday hustle and bustle would be here too soon. Deep sadness encompassed the ache of loneliness within my heart.

One year ago, Halloween’s Eve, I last saw my beloved, Marisol, on a gloomy day like this. After work and a hot yoga class, she never made it home.

The last words from a text.

Honey, I stopped to help this elderly woman wandering down Elbow Road. I am afraid she might get hit. You know all the curves and little to no shoulder. See you soon. Love ya.

I dozed watching The Haunting of Hill House.

Startled Awake, I heard the pounding on the door. Two uniformed police officers stood outside. By the look on their faces, I knew the news was not good. “Is this the residence of Marisol Birch?”

I have seen this scenario on too many crime dramas. They always say basically the same thing. I stumbled through the dark cloud which formed around my mind to speak, “Yes, I am her husband, Adrian Birch. What’s this about?”

The officer, a man probably in his forties, stepped forward. “Mr. Birch, we found your wife’s vehicle abandoned on the side of Elbow Road near the bend about a half-mile from Stumpy Lake.”

I followed them to her car. The officer stated they found the car with both the driver’s and passenger’s doors opened wide, but her Michael Kors handbag remained untouched on the floorboard. Her iPhone lay diagonally in the passenger seat. The forensics team found nothing conclusive. Despite a search of the area, they never found my beloved Marisol. After several months, the case went cold.

Several Years Earlier:

“Excuse me, Petty Officer, do you know where the communications station is?” I turned to see this young Information Technologist Third Class. She had natural sun toned skin, silky dark brown hair, brown eyes with golden flecks, and a milk-white smile. Though tempted to ask her for her cell phone number right then and there, I remained professional.

I thought it prudent to give this sailor a ride from the Personnel Support Detachment to her new command. The communications station is two miles on the other side of the Naval Air Station. Just so happened, I, too, was stationed there.

The gold specks in her eyes seemed to brighten when she would speak, “Petty Officer?” She glanced at my name tag, “Birch! Thank you for the lift. But be warned. If you try anything funny, I am Marisol De La Luna. My father is Don Geraldo De La Luna, the kingpin of the Bromas drug cartel.”

My mouth dropped like a ventriloquist dummy’s jaw. A smile formed on her face, then she burst out laughing, “I’m joking. My family is from Columbia, but I grew up in Alexandria, Virginia. My mother and father are doctors at John Hopkins.”

I responded in kind, “Nice to meet you, Senorita De La Luna. My name is Adrian Birch. I grew up on a farm in Sciota, New York, as a member of the Birch Milk Cartel.”

We both laughed. We hit it off from that moment. A year later, we married. I separated from the navy to start an IT consulting firm. She separated the following year. We enjoyed three happy years together when…

They say the first 72 hours are the most critical to finding a missing person. Maybe, I saw that on a crime drama also. Everyone except me came to the same conclusion — MARISOL IS DEAD. I couldn’t accept her death without undeniable proof.

When Marisol went missing, mediums, psychics, palm readers came out of the woodwork to help me find her. One told me the tale of Mrs. Woble, an elderly lady who lived in a house that no longer stands on Elbow Road. Though her body never found, the constabulary of her day suspected a family member had murdered her. To this day, the woman's bloodied and battered spirit is seen on Elbow Road at night. Many believe she seeks her revenge.

But something in my heart could not let Marisol go. So on this anniversary, I went back to the scene of her disappearance.

I pulled over to the spot where the police found her car still running. Raw emotions surfaced, followed by tears as I watched the drizzle in my headlights—a reminder of when I pulled up here last year.

I felt compelled to walk over to the cane grass. The cane was at least twice my height and looked impenetrable. Is Marisol beyond the cane grass wall?

“Son, are you lost?” I turned to see an elderly woman with blood on her face and a deep brain exposing gash in her forehead. Scared stiff, my feet would not move.

She smiled and spoke kindly to me, “I wish you no harm, so tell me your business?”

My head dropped with my heart, “I don’t know. A desperate hope I would find my beloved wife, Marisol. She disappeared from this exact spot one year ago, this night.”

The ghostly figure placed her chin in her hand with her index finger pointing up the side of her face. “Time is meaningless to me. But I do seem to remember a young lady who stopped to help me one night before Hallow’s Eve. I told her to leave immediately because there is much afoul on this road. Before she could escape, she was taken.”

Suddenly, the cane grass parted into a path. “About a half-mile through the cane is a small community of several houses hidden in the dense cane. A group of my no-good descendants lives there. For generations, every sixth year, they watch for lone young women traveling Elbow Road to apprehend for fresh breeding. They are a part of a dark religious cult. They believe they must purify the breeder for one year and a day. They keep the intended bride chained in a special room set up in the barn. On Hallow‘s Eve, the high priest will consummate the marriage by taking her to his bed. As atonement for my willful ignorance and turning a blind eye, I must walk this road to warn travelers. The bruises and pain I bear are part of my penance. Go quickly.

The woman disappeared. I went back to the car and grabbed my Sig Saurer and an extra magazine.

The path reminded me of a scene from the Children of the Corn. It opened in front of me and closed behind me. I expected a hideous animated scarecrow with a sickle in hand to jump out at any time. Forget the Wizard of Oz.

Just as the old ghoul had said, about a half-mile in was a large three-acre opening walled in by the cane grass on all sides. Four single dwelling houses surrounded a colonial manor. All the dwellings looked in disrepair. A rectangular barn sat to my left and slightly away from the houses.

I stopped just inside the cane wall, where I could observe without being seen.

Two men dressed in overalls carrying oil lanterns left the barn and walked toward the houses. The taller of the two spoke. “Go gather everyone to meet in the house for worship. After service, Wanda and Millicent will bathe Mary the sixth of seven bathings preparing for her consecration tomorrow.”

I watched as twenty people filed into the manor. After several minutes of no movement outside, I headed toward the barn. God, I hope they don’t have any watchdogs.

From the smell, I soon realized the barn housed only chickens. Nesting boxes ran on both sides with a central walkway. Quietly so as not to disturb the hens, I tiptoed to a set of stairs at the other end. An addition with an upstairs had been added to the barn.

Climbing one step at a time, with each creak, I winced, knowing the chicks would sound an alarm. I put my ear to the door but heard no sound.

Slowly, I opened the door. The room was about eight by eight feet. On the far side, a small bed. A nightstand with an oil lantern provided the only light. Marisol lay spread eagle chained to the four corners of the bed. She had on the same blouse and skirt she wore the night she disappeared.

She looked up at me wide-eyed. Several seconds passed before recognition and confusion crossed her face. “Adrian, what are you doing here?”

I put my finger to my mouth. “Shush. We don’t want to disturb the chickens.”

Marisol cocked her head and nodded toward the key hanging near the door.

I quickly unlocked the chains.

Later, she told me the only time they allowed her to get up was to work around the house or in the fields. She has been chained to the bed for two days now. She was very stiff and had difficulty walking. I had to bear her weight. Stumbling into a nesting box, we woke up the hens. The hens started cackling immediately.

By the time we exited the barn, a rooster had started crowing. Running, I practically carried Marisol.

Someone yelled, “Must be a fox or skunk in the hen house.”

As we made it to the edge of the cane grass, a path opened in front of us.

The tall man yelled, “Look! Two people escaping into the cane. Get them!”

I could hear our pursuers gaining on us. I pointed my gun down the path and fired two warning shots above their heads. “Stop following us. My next shots, I will aim true.”

Though I could not see them in the darkness, the noise of our pursuers stopped. Then I heard a yell, “We cannot let them escape. He can’t shoot us all.” The noise of pursuit resumed.

Fortunately, With the help of the adrenaline and fear, Marisol regained her legs' use and was able to move on her own. We made it to the car. I helped her in then jumped over the hood to the driver's side door. I hit the door lock as the band came out of the cane and surrounded the car. They began to rock the car. Nervously fumbling with the keys, I thought for sure they would tip the car over before we drove out of there.

A bolt of lightning fell from the sky and hit the car knocking the mob away. Mrs. Woble appeared, except she was no longer bloody or battered. She glowed like an angel. She raised her hands to the sky, “I am FREE. Your escape has set me free.”

Mrs. Woble turned and mouthed, “Go.”

I didn’t look back.

The police reported they had found the settlement. The buildings were burned to the ground and still smoldering. No one was found at the site.

Three Weeks later, Marisol had bounced back to herself faster than I expected. After the last year, I suspected she would have PTSD. Yet she seemed fine.

I asked her, “Honey, I don’t understand how you rebounded so quickly after your ordeal?”

She threw her arms around my neck, “Adrian, I knew you would come for me.”

With a gleam in her eye and her tongue in cheek, “Besides, I am a De La Luna. Our women are strong and built on hope.”