They lasted only two years. Fur traders at the time – and families seeking out loved ones who had absconded with the Society – described a few ramshackle cabins that would likely not hold up for the winter, a meager attempt at a farm, and strange nightly rituals that involved worshippers gathering to form geometric shapes and chanting in low, deep tones in an effort to ‘commune with the Great Spirit’. Visitors who witnessed the events usually left the commune shaken and disturbed, refusing to return to the area. “What they summoned, I could not begin to say,” wrote Daniel Jansen, a fur trader and woodsman. “Only that it was an abomination to the one true God. Following their ritual, they engaged in unspeakable carnal acts as if possessed by spirits. The whole land is haunted with witches and demons they have called forth. It is not safe. Coombs’ Gulch should be avoided.”
Indeed, it was not safe, as members of the Society of the New Dawn began to die off quickly during the harsh winter. Accidents plagued the community as high-minded intellectual elites attempted to tame the wilderness with few survival skills. Hunger ravaged their ranks. Those who attempted to leave that first winter became lost in the mountains and died quickly of exposure during an unusually bad winter. Suicide became rampant as some, delirious with their beliefs, tried to become one with Coombs’ gods.
But it was over the course of the second year that the children began disappearing into the woods. Infants, toddlers and adolescents began, one by one, to be unaccounted for, seemingly vanished, sometimes in broad daylight, sometimes during the night. Their frenzied parents and community leaders searched the Gulch endlessly and found nothing. Their rituals grew more fevered – violent, at times – as worshippers tried to appease the spirits to bring back their children. Visions of strange worlds and horrific beings became commonplace. The death toll rose.
Following the second year in the Gulch, all communication with the outside world ceased. A Dutch timber company working its way north eventually found the cabins but no signs of life, except for a few journals and remnants of a community. Among the journals was Coombs’ own diary. After reading the last entry, the timber company turned away and left to find other areas. “We see them in the night,” the diary read. “The dead come forth, the children play. Time is nothing to it. Mankind merely a toy. It takes many forms, but none more terrifying than our own.… It was all a great mistake.”
“Jesus, fuck,” Jonathan said. “We can’t do this anymore. This is dumb. We should just leave and risk it.”
“Fuck that,” Michael said.
“This place is bad. This is all bad. It’s like luck or a curse or whatever, but it follows you, and it’s damn sure following us!”
“Shut the fuck up; that doesn’t even make sense.”
The three of them were inside the cabin now, sitting at the table in the small kitchen. Daryl Teague had gone to fetch the police. Now their names would be recorded in some kind of official report, a record of their trip to Coombs’ Gulch a matter of legal proceedings.
“I saw something out there. I know this sounds crazy, but I saw—”
“You saw nothing. This is just an exercise in stress and you’re cracking.”
“Listen. I’m not cracking. I’m not losing it. I’m telling you that we’ve already had enough problems. This is not going the way it should be. There’s some kind of curse following us. Call it whatever you will.”
“There you go. I’ll call it crazy, thank you.”
“Let’s not go off the deep end,” Conner finally said.
Jonathan’s mind was fracturing and spinning like a child’s kaleidoscope. He tried to tell them about Thomas Terrywile, about how other missing children suddenly appeared on hunting cameras in the lost reaches of the world where only avid hunters would venture; the blued image of that little girl, dressed like it was 1972, kicking up her leg in a joyous leap; the Texan whom he spoke with on the phone, who had no reason to lie and little desire for attention. He told them, but it just came out as gibberish, and he couldn’t blame them for not believing – who would?
What he had seen outside, in the forest and mountains, was like looking into a shattered mirror, the world in a thousand different angles and pieces, and yet, somehow, it provided a truer glimpse into reality – the true world. But it wasn’t just the shattered mirror – something that could be perceived as a twist of fate or a spate of bad luck – it was the fact that behind it all he saw a malevolent force, a face dressed like little Thomas Terrywile. It was a pantomime, an exaggerated Halloween costume, a mask worn by something awful to mock them. The eyes were black holes, the teeth like a shark’s mouth implanted into a boy’s face. It was grotesque, an abomination of what is and what should have been.
“It’s getting late. Too late. Maybe you should get some sleep,” Conner said.
Jonathan tried to right himself, to get his mind back, but it felt as though his sanity were spiraling down a drain.
“We need you right. We need your head right,” Conner said.
“You sure your head is right with all this?” Jonathan said. “I don’t think right has anything to do
