The fourth night in a row. I just couldn’t shake the image of those bodies, helplessly being dragged through the dirt by the large man. The woman and the young girl, dead (or at least close to it), on their way to the ditch I watched them end up in the past three nights.
A cheap tile ceiling came into view. Slowly, my eyes started to adjust to the bleak, dull atmosphere of whatever room I was in. A thin wall of light from a crack in the curtains ran across my lower body. I was laying in a bed, propped up against six or seven pillows and draped in a white sheet that covered my body up to the neck. I couldn’t remember much about anything. I turned my head to the right. A searing pain shot through my head, making me cringe. After what seemed like forever, the pain subsided and I reopened my eyes to see medical equipment all over the place. Of course, a hospital. At that moment, the wooden door opened and a pretty blonde nurse strolled in with a clipboard.
“Mr. Rhode? How are you feeling?” she asked calmly. “You’ve been out quite a while.”
“Where am I?” I asked, “Why am I here?”
“Well Mr. Rhode, you were involved in a pretty serious car crash last week. Do you not remember?” she asked.
“No, no I do not remember that at all. I don’t remember much of anything.” And I didn’t. Mr. Rhode she had called me. Sounds familiar, I thought to myself.
“Temporary amnesia is a common side effect when it comes to the type of head trauma you’re dealing with. You had a pretty serious concussion. To be honest, we didn’t think you were ever going to fully wake up.” She said dryly. “We’re going to have you rest up here for a few more days, hopefully get you out and about by Friday! Give you a little time to regain your memory. I’ll be back to check on you later.” She left the room and it was quiet again.
A few days went by. Nurses were constantly coming in and giving me all sorts of painkillers and medicine to help me regain my memory and get back to functioning normally. They couldn’t do anything to stop those nightmares though. That same scene, over and over. I couldn’t even remember my damn name but I could see those women being brought to their crude grave night after night.
It was Saturday, a day after my supposed release. Bits and pieces were coming back to me, just like the nurse said they would. My name is Jack Rhode. I am 34. I live in Fremont, Nebraska. I am a sculptor. The rest is hazy, but I’m remembering slowly. I am finally going to be released today. God knows to what, but I’ll finally be back in the real world and on my way to being normal again. After a quick final exam and some paperwork, I took my first steps outside in literally as long as I can remember. The light breeze felt amazing on my face and the fresh air filled my lungs with each breath. It was a gorgeous night, the sun set just over the horizon off in the distance. It was eerie how cliché the evening was. Everything seemed almost too perfect. How was I going to get home though? It was getting dark and I didn’t have a car after totaling my last one (knock on wood). Wait, home. One thing I had yet to remember. I pulled my wallet out of my pocket and reached for my driver’s license. Upon pulling it out, a piece of paper fell out and floated down onto the ground. I picked it up quickly. Turning it over, a cold chill paralyzed me. A million thoughts raced through my mind at once. It was a picture. Me, a woman, and a young girl. I knew them better as the lifeless bodies I’ve been seeing every night. The nightmare seemed to be happening in real time now. I was watching up close as the man dragged them to the pit. He looked at me and nodded before disposing of them and covering the hole back up with dirt. I snapped back to reality, sweating. I called over a cab anxious to get home and put my hysterics to rest and this nightmare behind me.
1436 Laverna Street, I told the cabbie. I was staring out the window the whole ride, watching everything speed past me in a blur of colors. Finally arriving, I hopped out quickly and ran over to the front door. Our Jeep was still in the driveway, that was a good sign. I opened the door and went inside, nervous about what I might find. Everything was in tact, no signs of trouble. “Jane!” I yelled out as I walked around the kitchen counter. No response. Wait… Jane! That was my wife’s name. And Jessie was my daughter. Things started coming back to me. The house was full of pictures, all great memories  of times that were still vague in my mind. I made a full lap around the house and as I had feared, no one was home. I walked out into the garage, or should I say, my “office”. It was chock full of seemingly endless supplies of clay, paint, and workshop tools. Past sculptures of mine stood alongside the far wall, waiting to be sold. My last sale must have been forever ago. People just don’t understand true art. I walked back to the kitchen. Mail was scattered all over the counter. ‘URGENT’ is spelled out across several of them. Picking up the phone, I dialed 9-1-1. My finger hesitated over the talk button before finally pressing it. A few rings pass through before a flat voice answers, “9-1-1 what’s your emergency?”
“Uh, I think my wife and daughter have gone missing…” I say tentatively, “I don’t remember much, I  was recently in a car crash, lots of amnesia going on. What should I do?”
“Ok sir, hold on, we’re sending an officer over right now. What’s your address?” the voice inquires.
“1436 Laverna Street.”
“Ok we’re sending a car over now.”
The rest of the conversation is mindless procedure and formality. Click. The line goes dead.
I feel lost. I place the phone back down on the counter. My heart is pounding and my nerves are going haywire. I take a step back and grab a nearby chair to steady myself. It’s back. I see the man who was dragging my wife and daughter shoveling dirt. Something is on the ground near his feet, I can’t make out what it is though. He looks up at me and nods again. Where is he? The field of dirt he’s in seems familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it. A knock on the door brings me back to my senses.
I walk over and open it cautiously. A beautiful brunette stands there. “Excuse me is this the Rhode household?” she asks firmly.
“Yes, hi, I’m uh, Jack Rhode. Please come in.” I say, stunned by her beauty.
She opens the screen door and walks into the foyer, followed by a large cop who has a stern face and doesn’t speak. “I’m Detective Parsons and this is Officer Brady,” the lady says, “I’ve been assigned to your case. Would you mind explaining everything that’s happened?”
“Yes, I’ll tell you as much as I can remember,” I say. “I was apparently in some sort of car accident, been having some amnesia due to it. I don’t remember the specifics of anything really. I was in the hospital for a week or so… Kept having horrible nightmares about my wife and daughter being dragged to a ditch by some hooded freak. Next thing I know, I come home and they’re gone. Just gone…” I taper off.
She stares at me for a second before asking another question. “Ok, so where did you last see them?”
“Honestly, I can’t remember…”
“Alright well what about that nightmare you’ve been having? Think that has any meaning?”
“I think the dirt patch they’re in looks familiar. I’d have to think about it more.” I reply.
She asks a few more general questions before she and the cop get up to leave.
“I’ll be back here tomorrow to go over this. Hopefully you’ll have some ideas after a good nights rest. And don’t worry, we’ll find your wife and kid.”
They both leave. I watch as the taillights of the cop car make a right turn and disappear around the corner. A good nights rest? How am I supposed to sleep well when my wife and daughter are missing? I go upstairs anyway, tired and ready to go to sleep. I’m ready for the nightmare. I need to find out more about this guy and what’s happened to my family. After an hour or so of restlessness, I finally fall asleep. Instantly, I’m greeted by the man in the dark clothes. My wife and daughter lie behind him, motionless on the dirt. He just stares at me. I stare back. Something catches my eye in the distance, a small creek. A young boy is back there playing, catching frogs just like I used to do when I was a kid. An older boy looks down on him from an apple tree a few feet from the water. I know that tree. I used to sit up there for hours relaxing, hanging out, and chucking apples down at my brothers when they tried to climb up with me. What a childhood I had. And now this figure was tainting that memory with two corpses.
I woke up the next morning in a cold sweat. I trudged out of bed and brought myself to the bathroom where I showered and got ready for the day. I was trying to get back into the swing of things. When I find my family, I’ll need to support them somehow. But I couldn’t bring myself to sculpt, and I couldn’t find my tools anyway. Around two o’clock, Detective Parsons shows back up, alone this time. She walked in quickly and before I could say much she was photographing every square inch of my house. She was efficient.
“I see you’re a sculptor.” she says.
“Been a long time passion of mine.” I respond lightly. “It’s a living.”
She looks at the mail on the counter and clearly doubts it.
“I didn’t see any tools though. You do your work somewhere else?”
“No, I do it here. Must have misplaced them.” I reply quickly. “I think I know where the dirt patch from my dream is though” I say before the conversation can go any further. She hesitates for a moment.
“Well where is it?” she asks.
“Let’s take a drive.”
We get in the police car she has out front. We drive for about two hours before arriving at our destination. My childhood home, or rather the rotting abandoned shack it is now. “How do you know this place?” the detective asks.
“I grew up here,” I say, “I lived here for about 6 years before my dad died and I got moved to a foster home with my brothers.”
“You were in foster care?” she asked.
I was. More was coming back to me now.
“Yeah, briefly. I was almost 18 so I was only there a few years before I aged out.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she responded, “and I’m sorry for your loss.”
So was I. We walked over to the house to check it out. Parsons had a police bag strapped across her back and a gun in hand, trained on the door, moving slowly. “This is the police, make your presence known!” she yelled. No response. She crept up to the door and kicked it in, a loud cracking sound arising when her boot connected with the old wood. Her gun was still pointed in front of her. She disappeared around the corner quickly. “It’s clear!” she shouted back at me after what seemed like forever. I walked in after her. She was standing in the middle of the empty living room holding something.
“I think you forgot this.” she said, handing me a cracked glass frame. A picture of me and my family. Memories I had yet to recall. We walked out the back door. There it is. The long patch of dirt I have envisioned every night for the past couple weeks is right in front of me. There is no man, and there are no bodies. I like it better that way. We walk out to the middle of the patch, right where I stand in my nightmares. My heart starts pounding and my head is throbbing. This is real, I think to myself.
“So you think this is the spot?” Parsons asks.
I nod in reply. She takes a utility shovel out of her bag and starts digging. I stare off into the distance at the creek I once played in and the tree I once climbed. All of my memories here started flooding in back in a single wave of nostalgia. Swinging on the tire out back, playing football with my brothers, tossing the frisbee, all of the best childhood experiences a kid could have, I had here. My heart was racing faster now. More memories. Night games with my family, holiday barbecues out back, flying kites. My heart was practically beating out of my chest. Even more memories. Skinny dipping in the pond, getting drunk in the woods nearby, and… something else. I tried hard to remember. “Oh my God.” Detective Parsons murmured in shock. Now I remember. The scene ran through my mind. I see myself walking in from the garage, sweating, clay on my forehead and cheek. Jane’s holding a few bills, flipping through them. She screams at me. Of course. She’s always screaming at me it seems. The chisel in my hand feels light. The yelling continues. Jessie runs in to hide behind her mother’s leg. I can’t take it. My chisel feels weightless as it connects with Jane’s neck. There was no going back now. Again and again, I puncture her throat. It feels good. I wish Jessie didn’t try to protect her mom. Her body intercepts the next blow and I almost stop. Almost. I’m in the passenger seat now, watching myself carelessly drive to the patch of dirt I didn’t want to believe I was going to. Now I’m standing, watching as I drag the two lifeless bodies to the grave I have come to know so well. I look up at myself, and nod.
“Oh my God.” Parsons muttered again in horror. I look down at what she has uncovered. There they are, just as I had left them. A heap of rotting flesh. She looks at me in horror, and I nod. I lunge at her. She becomes one of them quickly — another pile of garbage. I watch as I drag her lifeless body through the dirt.