 Wyatt Fleming went missing in the summer of 19. There was no write-up in the newspaper, no six o'clock special on the news. To his loved ones, he was lost a long, long time ago when he chose life on the streets over the recovery center. To the city, it was easier if someone like him disappeared. Council overwhelmingly supported the relocation bill, which had the goal of revitalizing the streets of Fremont and creating a safer downtown core. While the tents were folded up, the shopping carts loaded into vans. Hundreds of vagrants and street walkers were displaced from the corners and alleyways that they had been occupying for years. They were shipped from the bustling downtown metropolitan area to the outskirts of the city limits, near the forest and the gravel trails that led to the gully. Far away from the five star restaurants, the high rises, the boutiques, they'd been dumped near the newly erected rehab facilities and low income housing units. As far as the city was concerned, they'd all disappeared. So no one batted an eye, not for a vagrant. If he wasn't my brother, I probably wouldn't have cared either. I made my weekly wellness check a piping hot styrofoam plate filled with a serving of meatloaf in hand. I took the typical route along the treeline just off the gravel path. In the scent slapped you the razor sharp whiff of acidity of piss you knew you were heading in the right direction. I slowly trotted down the embankment to his usual spot. The tattered blue tarp was strung across four pencil fin pines, his pile of clothes underneath reeking of whiskey and unwashed armpit. Yeah, this was home. As you got closer, the smell worsened. It choked you forcing a palm to the bridge of your nose. A rusty shopping cart with a pay less logo on the handle was pushed up against a fallen tree filled to the brim with a man's lifelong accumulation of belongings nestled into his carefully curated blanket of leaves and foliage pillows. His natural mattress lay a lonely half empty bottle of Jack. That's when I knew something was wrong. Those two were inseparable. I trudged through the rows upon rows of trees, ignoring the pricks, the pine needle arms that brushed up against you pulling you in. I was following a squishy dirt moss leaf soup, a thin trail of the murky water leading deep into the forest. I called out for Wyatt, hoping the trees would carry my voice to him. I was searching for footprints, signs of struggle, anything that would lead me to my brother. I made it all the way to the edge of the forest to the entrance of the gully. It was a steep drop off the side of the hill caved in to form a deep ditch. Inside the ditch, I could see a dark pool. As a kid, we used to call it the witch's cauldron. It was a sign that a storm was brewing. The belly of the gully, full, I called out for Wyatt again and again. I returned to his home every few days for the next couple of weeks. The bottle of Jack, still in bed, all alone. I contacted the police, the Fremont Herald, the Channel 5 News, anyone that would listen. No one batted an eye, no, not for a vagrant. Ugh, the city is gone to shit. My friend Eddie declared in the backseat of my car. He had his head poking out of the window. His long stringy strands flopping in the wind. Outside of city limits, we were passing Pumpjack after Pumpjack on our way to the gully. What are you complaining about, Ed? My other friend, Sharif, scoffed. How else do you plan on paying for that big ass apartment? He looked back at him. Nobody eats in a recession. Eddie rolled up the window. The flashlights rolled around in the backseat. This was booming in the city as we rode another economic peak, awaiting the valley and then the inevitable crash that would follow. It was the roller coaster ride of the oil and gas sector. You had no choice but to hold on and hope you survived it. The transient community weren't the only ones being forced out of Fremont. The city had become popular. It had a lot to offer, with its low taxes and being situated so close to the mountains. Things were changing quickly. You could feel it. New property development was popping up everywhere you turned. Apartment units were being stacked to the sky, one on top of the other. Developers were snapping together. These Lego piece homes as high and as wide as the city permitted. To find anything affordable, you had to look elsewhere. The average person was pushed further and farther out into the outskirts, resulting in urban sprawl. A lot of the city's essential services followed suit, the recycling facilities, the water treatment plants, the dump. They all had to be relocated further and farther away, as the city began to expand. I parked the car and we walked past Wyatt's memorial sign. The wind bit through our fleece jackets, an odd chill for a summer evening. Everything in his home was how I left it, the piss stench, the half empty bottle. We continued south, hollering his name, flicking on the flashlight as the sun began to dim. We passed other homeless encampments, other campers finding solace in the wilderness. Those that were coherent had confirmed they hadn't seen Wyatt in a while. Yeah, we need to cover way more ground, Sharif said. I think we should split up. It'll be dark before you know it. We agreed to meet back at the sign at 9 30 p.m. We all marched off in different directions. I called out his name, turned over logs and looked under bushes. There were still no signs of him anywhere. When 9 30 hit and the sun began to hide behind the huddle of trees, I made my way back to Wyatt's encampment. The sky was a charcoal gray, the rain pattering down soft droplets that were partially sheltered by the canopy of trees. On route, I heard a screech so deafening, it rustled the trees. It made my stomach turn as I sped off in the direction of sound. Wyatt, I sprinted towards the screaming, the trees scratching and clawing me as I ducked and weaved through. It led me to the edge. I looked down into the golly, smoky black water sloshed around, tree branches and debris floating, trapped inside the carved out crevice. No sign of Wyatt, just murky gray puddles around the edge of the cliff, a thin trail of it coming from the forest. I followed the trail of slosh to a dead end in the middle of the forest. The abrupt stop gave me goosebumps tingling up my spine. It was pitch dark now, water pouring down from a dense arc of clouds above. Every rustle, every stir, made me wield the beam of light in my hand like a sword. I heard long drown out howls that made me shudder. I tried to trace my steps back through the void, the never ending maze of trees. It felt like I was making loops upon loops, the trees sharp fingers pointing me around in circles. I had never been so happy to smell the odor of urine. I had no idea how long I was out there before the piss tent revealed itself. Just past the blue tarp, I could make out a figure, another beam of light. Where's Sharif? Eddie? I shone the light at the figure's chest. His long chocolate hair was drenched and covered in leaves. Eddie, where's Sharif? His eyes got wide, his stare empty and astray. I was hoping he was with you. When Peyton Mackenzie disappeared, the public finally began to take notice. Others of her were popping up everywhere, her shiny golden locks curled up into spirals, her icy blue eyes staring back at you with a glimmer of optimism that only children have. She had a face that people cared about. It was the face of innocence. A crop shot of her in a family photo was plastered on every light pole in suburbia. The flyer read Peyton Mackenzie, help us bring her home. The story spread like wildfire. Every news outlet was replaying a 15 minute interview with the parents where her mom and dad were begging the public for help. Their extended family was having a picnic get together on the north side of the gully. Peyton's parents must have lost sight of her only for a moment. While the parents were mingling about adult things around the barbecue, she must have wandered off just a little too far from her siblings and cousins and a little too close to the gully. All Sharif's disappearance did was put the microscope on me as a suspect. I had nothing to hide, so I told them everything. The cops completed another search with a canine unit sniffing out the trail, divers searching the river and rescue boats looking for bodies. They came back with nothing. But someone like Peyton didn't just go missing, not without a public outcry. The story broke the hearts of every mother and father in the city. Search parties were organized pronto, candlelight vigils were scheduled immediately. We all needed to bring the girl home, the one that could have easily been our daughter. We'd all enjoyed picnic south of the gully. We'd all hiked a trail in that neck of the woods. I decided to join the search party because I needed something to do, anything to fill the sunken empty feeling that lingered in my stomach. I considered the blood of Sharif to be on my hands. And while part of me feared the absolute worst, I still had to believe my brother and him were still out there. There must have been 50 of us gathered in the north side parking lot. We were equipped with flashlights in hand and whistles around our necks. I was placed in a group with a lanky fellow named Paul and an older lady in a cardigan named Edith. Edith's mom, Gweny, was holding up a map that had been sectioned off in colored marker. She motioned to our group with a gentle smile that didn't match her bloodshot eyes. You guys search the southwest corner, here. She pointed to the map, the southwest corner of the map, a pocket of land closest to the gully. This side of the gully was much less wild. The trees seemed to crowd you less, their stalking felt less forceful. You could feel like you could actually breathe, like today. Maybe we had a chance. The north side had gone through extensive landscaping to create a family-friendly picnic destination. It was a parks initiative that council felt made the city more attractive. It had worked. Typically, the barbecue pits were booked up solid for the summer before Peyton's disappearance. We all screamed the girl's name. Most of us headed in opposite directions on our dead girl scavenger hunt. We'd searched for a couple of hours hiking in the woods, examining smudges and the dirt that could have been footprints. Everybody played detective, while Peyton played hide and seek. Eventually we stopped for a break, leaning against some trees. The unstable terrain and occasional incline had knocked the wind out of Edith. I just need a moment. She said, beads of sweat collecting on her forehead. You young ins don't know what it's like to have seventy-year-old knees. It started with a trickle, a thin trail of earthy gray. The liquid snaked around a cluster of trees in a slow drizzle. I wouldn't have even noticed it had we not come to a complete stop. I watched it pull up slowly, the murky gray getting darker and more opaque. People in Edith were staring off into space, observing the top of the trees. Peyton's name was echoing in the distance. I didn't think much of it at first. It could have been a tiny leak from the nearby drainpipe or maybe some sort of tiny offshoot from the river. But the puddle got deeper, too deep, spreading out in a small wave behind a tree. Guys, I said, the shallow puddle had gathered into a thick, dark, sludgy pool that had oozed itself around Paul's feet. Before he could look down, a mucky tentacle wrapped itself around him. It yanked him under the pool swallowing him up. His body disappeared into the viscous glob, like quicksand. He let out an ear-splitting scream. I tried to lunge at him, hoping to grab onto an arm and pull him out. Orange beady eyes glared back at me, and then they were gone. I rushed after it, Edith with her geriatric knees slowly following behind. My legs were wobbly, my heart thrashing in my chest, the thing that consumed Paul was quickly flowing away. The thick glob was almost swimming now, moving like a viscous tidal wave, weaving in and out of the trees and the trail of liquid it had entered in. What it left behind was a murky liquid trail that almost blended in with the dirt. Items were being displaced from the monster, slipping out of the gobs' core in a slimy film. A mixed berry crumble wrapper, tiny shoelaces, a styrofoam cup. It was leaving behind a strong smell in the wet left behinds, a mix of methanol and grease in the rotting stink of decay. I chased with all my might, chasing this thing that was now moving like it was sliding down a slip and slide at the local water park. I could see it now. The chemicals, the garbage, the human intestines all swirled up in a big old pot, all brewing for years in the witch's cauldron. My lungs burned as I watched the thing wash away down the side of the eroded cliff into the gully. I peered down in horror as the thing slid into the belly, swishing around in the eroded half pipe, a dark pool, its nightmarish orange eyes blinking back at me. Edith caught up to me a few minutes later, gasping for air. A few others came running around, hearing all the commotion. We looked on helplessly as the orange eyes disappeared into the swirling liquid. Peyton's search party came up empty. The police's search of the north side came up empty. All they had were our stories, first hand accounts of a monster from Edith and myself, a senile lady in a whack job obsessed with a hole in the ground. Those were the labels they gave us. In the fall of 19, they took a man into custody named Alfonso. He was a lowlife rapist and career criminal. They said that he'd been camping out in the gully and praying on random victims. They said they had his DNA, but I never heard about any recovered bodies. He had a receding hairline and piercing raven black eyes. He had a face that people despised. It was the face of guilt. It wasn't the fairytale ending for Peyton Mackenzie, but at least it was an ending. A few weeks after the unsuccessful searches, I tried to stop by the gully to visit why it's home. I noticed the sign had been replaced. Tall barbed wire fences and plastic boards now covered the area. Miles of fences, all confining the vast forest. Lines of advertisements hung up from the metal fence poles for new coffee shops and restaurants opening up in the city. I haven't slept much since that final visit to the gully. In my nightmares, I feel the layers of oily muck sliding up onto my face. It's slimy tentacles wrapping around me in a vice grip restricting my movement. I try to scream, but I drown in the sludge. In this up and coming city, we've pushed away a dark secret. For years, I noticed something this morning when I was making my coffee. I was reading the paper patiently waiting for my bread to toast. As I took a sip of water, the way the light hit the glass, I could make out a faint hue. A pale tint of ashy gray. I ran to the sink and spit out the water. A special thank you to the author AP Royal for sharing this great story. Make sure to check out more of the author's work, there'll be a link in the description. Thanks for listening.