Unholy Shepherd by Robert Christian (rooftoppers txt) 📕

or her book collection. That day though, she didn’t say a word. All Maire had seen of her was when she took off her light blue windbreaker, hung it up on the hallway hook, picked up her backpack, and ran up the stairs. She barely even heard the bedroom door close from the kitchen. Maureen had the habit of door slamming, so that small detail stuck fast in Maire’s mind. Of course, such minuscule details meant little to the police, so she hadn’t mentioned it.

Maire recounted that it hadn’t been until she had called the kids down to dinner that she first noticed Braden was missing. He had been playing and watching television in the living room for most of the afternoon. Maureen came down to the dinner table and sat down without saying a word. A minute or two passed and Braden still hadn’t come to the table. Usually he’d run in as soon as she announced dinner was ready. Her boy loved to eat. She had walked into the living room, and it was then that she saw the sight that would haunt her for the rest of her life: the wide-open French doors leading to the backyard with her son nowhere to be seen.

She told him how the rest of the night was spent much like anyone would expect. She went door to door to see if any of the neighbors had seen him. She called all his friends’ parents to see if he had shown up at any of their homes. No one had seen him. She then made the call to the police department to file the missing person report. They had asked if perhaps he was with his father, but she told them he had said he had some business overseas this week. She didn’t know where he was staying but gave the police his secretary’s number to call in the morning.

She recalled how the days leading up to this morning were a blur of police interviews, organized searches, and never-ending parades of friends, family, neighbors, and even strangers coming in and out of her house offering their condolences. Meaningless condolences, she thought. Through it all, only two things remained constant: no sign of her son was found, and her daughter had remained eerily detached. That second thought she kept to herself.

All of that continued until this morning. Her sister-in-law, Nancy, had taken it upon herself to come over after church the previous day, cook, and spend the night. Maire would have sooner had Lucifer himself over than the sister of her soon-to-be ex-husband, but she bore it as best she could. She had even managed a few hours of sleep before the police came to her door at just past seven. Nancy had answered and then came upstairs to find her. She had been sitting in the old rocking chair in Braden’s room, thinking about all the times he had fallen asleep in her arms as a baby. It seemed an eternity ago now. When Nancy had appeared at the door and said the police were downstairs, Maire already knew what awaited her.

“Ms. Keane,” Officer Dennis said when she had finished, “we need to ask you about your daughter.”

She could tell he was nervous about something, and a cold chill ran down the back of her neck. Did they know what she had kept out of her statement? Maire kept all the composure she was capable of.

“What about her?” she asked as evenly as possible.

“Ms. Keane, the County Sheriff’s Department received a call at around two in the morning on Saturday. The caller was a young child. She didn’t identify herself and just began talking. She told the switchboard operator: ‘North three mile twenty-five. Braden’s lying down in the leaves. He’s cold. Someone has to help him. He’s not moving and he’s too cold. Mommy won’t listen. Mommy doesn’t believe me.’ The operator tried to get more from her, but she hung up right away. Ms. Keane,” Officer Dennis sighed, “the FBI has a psychologist at your house right now speaking with your daughter. If that was her calling that night, they’ll find out soon. Is there anything you’d like to add to your statement before that happens?”

Maire’s legs went numb. It was all she could do to nod. Officer Dennis called the agents over, and Maire filled in what she had left out of her report. That Friday night, Maureen had wandered from her bedroom to where Maire was sitting on the couch. Her eyes were open, but she didn’t blink, as if in a trance. Her words were clear though, if a little soft.

“Braden. Braden, wake up!” she said, standing beside the armrest of the couch. She stared straight ahead, but earnestly began patting Maire’s arm. “Mommy!” She began to get more hysterical, but was still staring at the wall, unblinking. “Mommy, we have to go get Braden. He’s cold! He’s not moving! He was carried into the woods! I saw! I carried him! Mommy! North. Three. Mile. Two. Five. It wasn’t me! I carried him, but it wasn’t me! Please, Mommy, he’s cold and he’s not moving!”

Maire had stared at her daughter in horror. Finally, going against everything she’d ever been told about a sleepwalker, she shook her daughter awake. Maureen blinked and when her breathing returned to normal, she stared straight at Maire and asked if they were going to get Braden now. Maire was paralyzed, not knowing what to do. She told her daughter that she just had a bad dream and to go back to bed. Maureen had protested and began to cry, but Maire took hold of her daughter’s arm and led her back to her room. When the police told her that morning that her son had been found on the side of Highway 3 near mile marker twenty-five, she finally understood what had happened to Maureen.

When Maire was a young girl in Ireland, her great-grandmother had told her stories about “The Demon Sight”. She