The following are passages from Nora Stillman’s journal, spring to fall 2002, released by Erie County Sheriff’s Office. Contact 716-847-TIPS with any information leading to her whereabouts, as well as those of her husband and her son, Samuel Stillman and Benjamin Stillman, respectively.

They are missing to this day.

*                      *                      *

April 16
            I did it. I finally did it. I left Samuel, & I am terrified.
            Things were surmounting for quite some time. I wanted to make it work, I really did, mainly for Benjamin, but there’s only so much a person can take. My sweet Benjamin. Just thinking about him chokes me up.
            He will never have any recollection of this, I hope. The brain can’t retain anything at 12 months old, can it? No, that’s not possible—it can’t be possible. I’ve heard of people having memories from three or four years old, but one year? Never.
            Benjamin is sleeping in his carrier by my side as I write this. He is so gorgeous & peaceful. My beautiful, blind little baby boy. Why, Samuel? Why?
            It’s hard to find comfort in the soft glow of this cozy New Mexico motel room, even with the quiet roads outside & the warm breeze coming through the window screens. These usually comforting things make it even harder. Hard enough I have to peek through the blinds every five minutes. Every subtle noise—a chirping cricket, an A/C unit clicking on, the buzz of a fluorescent light bulb—sends shockwaves through my chest like a sledgehammer through a cymbal.

            It’s hard because I know he knows. Samuel always knows.

            The things that originally attracted me to Samuel are the same things which later disturbed me: the dark gleam in his eye, the Hollywood smile, the way he’d go about demanding things… & of course, his sheer intelligence—the way he knew things. Knew things he shouldn’t. Knew things that were impossible for him to know. Oh, God!

            I’m still putting the pieces together. That’s a large part of why I’m starting this journal… as well as to document this all in real time… & to keep me sane. Hopefully.

            Samuel is a movie producer, among other things… he had hands in the latest Spielberg film, & he & his company, Ambrose Pictures—his cabal, is more like it—have several projects on the horizon. At 32 years old he’s already had much more success than men twice his age will ever have in film production—another thing that initially attracted me to him, that became more & more unsettling over time.
            He never knew when to leave his work on set or in boardrooms or at those shadowy mansion parties up in the hills, & when to be himself. Therefore, I never knew if I was talking to the person he thought I wanted to talk to, or his true self. In time I realized I didn’t know who he was anymore—& I’m not sure I ever did in the first place. My own husband, a stranger! I wonder if he even knows the real him… or if all of the thoroughly convincing smoke-in-mirrors theatrics & charades—the ceaseless, systemic manipulation & persuasive personas he habitually carries out to great effect for personal gain—have left even him a bit mixed up when he takes a look in the mirror. The thought of it gives me the creeps. But, no time for dark spirals of the mind tonight. Lord knows I’ve got the creeps enough already. I am petrified to the bone. Running on pure adrenaline. Flight mode fully engaged.
            Three days ago, when Samuel was on set, I packed one suitcase, stuffed as many of Benjamin’s things that could fit into my little sedan, withdrew my nominal bank account of tips & allowances from back at my father’s modest boatyard in Morro Bay, California, & took off east from Los Angeles.
            I didn’t know where we were going. I still don’t. My account’s hardly been touched since leaving Cuesta College back home for a life with Samuel, but it isn’t much. It will keep us going for a few weeks at best. The most important part was getting away from L.A., of that I have no doubt. I have confidence in myself to figure it out—even if I’m winging it, even if I’m terrified. I wouldn’t have left with my baby boy otherwise. I have always been good on my feet when the chips are down.
            I am not worried about an AMBER Alert. Samuel will not want to draw any unnecessary attention to this. He won’t want any authorities involved—he’ll want to find us himself. This is what terrifies me most.

            There was no other option. Not after what I witnessed the day before our departure.

            Samuel had set me up with one of my usual specialty gynecology appointments over in Pasadena while he took Benjamin on set. It was the day after Benjamin’s first birthday & it seemed important to Samuel that I have a check-up at that time. He was also excited for Benjamin’s first time on set. A “rite of passage” he called it. Good God… how horrifically haunting that is now…
            For some time—I’d say right around when I had gotten pregnant & more so after Benjamin was born—I had been getting fed up with Samuel’s controlling habits & strange entourage: The overheard phone conversation between him & someone I could not identify—someone very adamant that I make the next “housewives’ soirée” while Samuel whispered back in shame at my disobedience—the oddness of the women at these parties that I originally attributed to an L.A. lifestyle which is most certainly something more sinister & unusual, the empty promises that I could return to college for fine arts & history, his vehement denial that I work any sort of job in my one & a half years since moving to Los Angeles up through pregnancy, his commandeering of aforementioned medical scheduling… the list goes on.

            So when I got to Pasadena, I decided to hell with “my” appointment. Why does he set me up with these specialty doctors out that way anyway? What used to seem so sweet, became increasingly uncomfortable since giving birth. I wasn’t sure if it was a change in me caused by the postpartum hormones; in him, facing fatherhood; or if I was just discovering more as more was being revealed, & needed a day to think about that which I now know beyond any shade of doubt. I was due for a drive up the coast, some time back home on the boat with Pops. A solid afternoon on the water, where I seem to think the clearest. Where I am happiest.
            I turned around & headed back to the house. Samuel would already be on set with Benjamin. He was never late—in fact, he was annoyingly early by default, but I digress. I had to grab a change of clothes—most importantly, my favorite boater hat Pops gave me as a coming-of-age gift for my 18th birthday, after so many countless hours by his side. The one he had worn so often, handed down to me. My badge of honor & my ticket to ride. He always joked he wouldn’t let me aboard without it.
            Arriving home, the strangest sounds hummed from beneath the floor. Like a chorus of… I don’t even know, rabid animals? Yet somehow unearthly. Low droning vibrations pulsating under high-pitched rhythmic whistling.
            Trembling as I crept into the basement I tried not to make a sound. I couldn’t see where the noises were coming from, but they were louder, soul-piercing, pure evil. Perverse & conversational, throaty & feral. I fought the unsettling feeling that started in my stomach & ran through my entire body, & entered Samuel’s home office. The horrific cacophony was deafening—it pounded through my ears & my head, it swallowed me, it was inside me! It was coming from the closet.
            I forced the strength to approach the closet door, my body feeling lighter than air, yet heavier than lead. I felt myself floating above myself, as I watched my heavy hand reaching forward for the doorknob, slowly shaking with fear. I opened the closet door &… no! I can’t! I won’t!
            It was awful! Atrocious! A sacrilege! & now my sweet baby is blind, Godblessit! Why, Samuel? Why??
            I don’t understand! I can’t understand! & I am not able to relive that earth-shattering moment anymore!
            It’s behind us now. It’s over…

            It’s late & we’ve got another long day of travel tomorrow. Have to make every second count & I’ve got to be well rested. Although I’m exhausted, sleep will probably elude me again. How can one sleep after… that, though? I don’t think there’s a support group for people in my club. I don’t even know if there is anyone else in my club…
            I have to stay strong for my son. My Benjamin. My baby boy.
            There is no other way.

            …Still, I can’t help this feeling that he’s already six steps ahead, waiting for us wherever we end up. Knowing where we’ll be before we do. Lingering around every corner. Lurking in every shadow. This feeling that I’m winding the crank on some demented jack-in-the-box—Samuel inside—ready to spring out at any moment, from any angle, from anywhere.
            This feeling that there is no escape.

*                      *                      *

April 22
            The last few days have been a blur. Sleep has been minimal at best, right when I need to be more alert than I’ve ever been.
            Traveling across the country with my sweet one year old baby boy. Blind one year old baby boy. There’s no getting over this. If only I hadn’t changed plans that day, stopped home, interrupted whatever that was!
            …No. I mustn’t blame myself. What was that?? How was I to know? I must break this self-deprecating cycle of guilt. It is not mine to bear! Or, is it? Perhaps to own it is to be set free, or at least to begin to accept it & to heal. Still, it’s too soon. Much too soon. I’ll be fine. It’s not me I’m worried about anyway…

            Benjamin has picked up a new habit. It’s quite charming. He wakes up abruptly from his reverse-facing car seat—straight up, stiff—& points behind us through the back glass at the eeriest of times. Like just after dusk, when the roads are mostly empty, or after passing a dark body of water. He comes to, sits up straight, points & babbles. Almost like he sees something—something following us. Which would make a little more sense if my son wasn’t blind, Godblessit!|
            I don’t know… I know I’m not imagining this, but am I losing my mind?
            My sweet boy. I have to stay strong for him. I need to keep it together. I must!

            We’ve made it east of the Mississippi. I thought maybe I’d feel a little better at this point—even just a smidgen—but, no, not a chance. I don’t think I’ll ever be ok again—but this isn’t about me. It never was. I just have to keep my little boy safe. My poor baby. I have already failed him in the first place. God, what a horrible mother!

            Nora—get a grip. There’s no time for that. You can only do your best from here on out. Give Benjamin the best life possible. Sort out the rest later, if you can. You got this.

            Where are we anyway? Another roadside motel, another night in some strange little Midwestern town. They’ve all been strange. How else could they be after what’s happened? At times I think I might be going blind, my eyes flicking back & forth between the lines of the highway & the rearview mirror, everything blending together, radio off, only silence other than Benjamin’s sporadic episodes & the tires on the pavement putting more miles between us & Los Angeles. Between us & Samuel—I hope. Still—not enough. Never enough.

            Anyhow, as of today, we have a plan. Well, not much of one, but some semblance of a plan. A fresh start. A new beginning.
            Stopping at a library outside of St. Louis, skimming through the periodicals section—as I have every chance I’ve had since fleeing California—I believe I’ve made up my mind on our destination. For now.
            The housing is affordable. The population is big enough we won’t stick out, small enough we’ll fit right in. It’s not a tourist destination. It’s off the beaten path. Looks like there’s a lot of docks & harbors along the many waterways of the region—perhaps a place that could use some help in exchange for room & board for Benjamin & I until we get on our feet. They seem to have good schools & doctors, for both children & the blind. Hopefully good psychiatrists as well—Lord knows I’m going to need a team of them.
            Most importantly, it’s somewhere Samuel will never think to look for us, I hope with all my heart. I pray to God.
            The City of Buffalo, New York.
            What a nightmare.

            Tomorrow is another long day. I need to try to get some rest. Who knows what’s up ahead.

*                      *                      *

May 13
            Well, Benjamin & I are a long way from home, but we have managed to settle down for the summer, it appears. What even is home anymore? A vague, distant concept at best.
            For now, though, I suppose home is Sturgeon Point Marina. Greater Buffalo Area—on Lake Erie, in the Town of Evans, New York.
            I can’t express enough how grateful we are for Mr. Bill Hendricks & his lovely wife, Debra. For everything my Ma & Pops taught me at the boatyard. We’ve been able to fit right in. After stopping at a handful of seemingly operational docks & harbors across Pennsylvania into New York to no avail, here we are in the guest quarters of Mr. & Mrs. Hendricks—an open loft space above one of their boat garages overlooking the lake—Benjamin by my side, taking care of anything & everything I can on a daily basis. The body of water may be smaller, & freshwater is much easier to work with than saltwater as far as maintenance goes, but it’s all essentially the same as back home, other than the seasons.
            I’m sure Ma & Pops are ok, though I can’t help but worry. Nothing shakes them—not even their youngest daughter calling from a payphone in the Middle-of-Nowhere, U.S.A. telling them I took off from my husband with my one year old baby boy—the only feasible response after what I witnessed in Samuel’s study closet. Was I panicked? Absolutely… I still am. But I still see no other alternative, even after sitting in the reality of all of this—minute-by-minute, moment-by-moment—almost a full month later.
            I didn’t want to call my parents. Not that they’d be worried. I knew they could handle hearing my current situation—that they’d have confidence in me, or at least feign it well enough to the same effect—& I wasn’t wrong there. But because it would be so much easier for me not to hear their voices. That sound of familiarity that broke me down, driving nails hard into the sinking realization that this is all real. Too real. As real as real can get. Good God.
            I had to ring them, though. One: to fill them in & to tell them Benjamin & I are ok, for now; &, two: so that they keep their guards up in case Samuel turns up their way, or whoever the hell else—one or more of his constituents or cronies.
            Ma assured me Pops always has his 10-gauge shotgun loaded & ready, & that if Samuel shows his face within a 50 mile radius of their property it will be the last time he shows his face anywhere other than a funeral—& that’s only if Pops is considerate with his aim. That goes for whoever he is affiliated with as well. Thank God they never came to Los Angeles to visit, & Samuel’s address is unlisted—hidden well just like the rest of his personal information. (Add that to the list of things that once made me feel safe & secure, that now plays through my mind to the total opposite.) I would not doubt for a single second they’d be finding their way to his house—my old home—& fast. Well, as fast as 70 year old folks can. Pops might even take a boat with an engine, instead of relying on wind. Just the thought of it gives me a chuckle—a much-needed one, too. There hasn’t been much laughter or levity in my life the past few months, that’s for sure…

            I still can’t say or even write what we experienced that day in the closet… my mind short-circuits. Goes black. It was so surreal. Hideous. Visceral.
            But every time I wake up—I’m lucky if I can get more than 2 consecutive hours of sleep anymore—jolted to consciousness by quivering nerves & cold sweats, frantically making sure Benjamin is within reach, I’m reminded at once by the sightless eyes of my gorgeous baby boy that this is the truth. This is no nightmare. There is no waking up.
            At least Benjamin hasn’t had one of his episodes in a few days & nights now—the longest period of time since we got off the road & settled in here. The waking up swiftly into an upright position, pointing out into night, into day, into nothing, while garbling his infant gibberish…

            Is it gibberish though? I’m not positive, but I could almost swear I heard “dada” last time, from my sweet baby boy’s sweet little mouth…
            But, you can hear anything anywhere, if you focus hard enough. Especially under intense levels of traumatic stress.
            Your 13 month old popping up perpendicular like a man back from the dead & pointing out into thin air, however—that’s a lot harder to mistake for something else.
            Trust me. I’m trying.

*                      *                      *

July 9
            Another day on the lake. How refreshing. Never fails. Can never get enough!
            Benjamin loves it out there, just like his mama. Must be in our blood. It’s a shame he can’t see the water. But he can feel it. The waves, the wind, the warmth. & as for his “pointing & babbling” outbursts, they are nothing but adorable on the boat, like a little captain! The customers love it, as do Mr. & Mrs. Hendricks. If there’s anything off-putting in his babbling, it’s carried right away with the summer breeze.
            Benjamin handled the Fourth of July fireworks well, too. My little boy isn’t afraid of anything. He seemed to enjoy them, even. All those sudden, spontaneous explosions of sound, in the days & nights leading into & trailing away from the holiday.
            We just got in from another dinner with Mr. & Mrs. Hendricks. Sorry—Bill & Debra. Bill insists, “Young lady, Mr. & Mrs. Hendricks are my parents,” with a smile slightly gracing the corners of his mouth, & Debra says, “Please, dear,” in the sweetest, most motherly voice, “would you stop making us feel so old? Don’t think you’d like it, would you, Miss Stillman?” Which sends a chill down my spine, for reasons they could never imagine… but any darkness lately, seems to be quite quickly absolved.

            There’s a fifth member who joins us at dinner regularly. His name is Jeremy Walsh. He’s a couple years younger than I, & he’s worked for the Hendricks for a long time… & get this: he’s legally blind.

            Stepping back a few weeks: The busy season started here mid-May. The marina began coming to life & amidst the growing commotion on the harbor, while wrapping up my morning routine, I noticed a young man 100 feet or so down the dock struggling with a cleat hitch. I didn’t want to offend—especially being new around here, especially being a woman—but I couldn’t help watching him from my periphery for a few minutes while he tussled with the rope with no success. I thought about what Pops would say, in that endearingly gruff voice of his, “Sometimes, you gotta show ’em how it’s done, Nor. These are lives at stake.” Or Ma, in her comforting West Coast croon, “Don’t be shy, just because he’s a guy,” & decided I had a moral obligation to help him out, as courteously as possible.
            I approached casually, still a good 50 feet away, & said, “Excuse me, sir. Couldn’t help but notice you may be having a little trouble. We work here,” referencing Benjamin, who I still have trouble allowing to leave my sight for more than literally a single second. “Can I lend a hand?”
            He stopped what he was doing abruptly & turned toward us, looking at me from under his shades. “Who are you?” he asked kindly, “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
            “My name is Nora. & this is Benjamin.” His head turned toward my son. “I don’t mean to be rude,” I said.
            “No, no, that’s fine.” He returned to his project, twisting & turning the rope, nowhere close to a cleat knot. “I just can’t see too well.”
            I laughed lightheartedly to myself. “That’s ok. It is sunny. We can’t see that well, either. May I?” I said, & began approaching him.
            “Hold on. It’s not that.” He flipped & flopped the rope into a greater mess, then whipped it right into his own face with an audible whap, knocking his sunglasses off. He set down the rope & sat down, defeated.
            I asked if he was ok as we neared him.
            “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Just embarrassed.”
            Coming up alongside him, I said, “Can I see your face? Want to make sure it’s not serious, is all.”
            He wouldn’t turn our way, just said, “Can you please just tie the knot?”
            I did as he asked, then tried again to see his face, my parents’ words running through my head. “May I please see? Not to be persistent, it’s just, there’s protocol.”
            “Believe me, I’m aware,” he said politely, & reluctantly showed his face. I noticed at once that all-too-familiar cloudy look in his left eye that I see every day in both eyes of my sweet little Benjamin.
            “Name’s Jeremy,” he said. “Promise, I’m fine. Let’s keep this between us, please. Like I said, I can’t see too well. It has nothing to do with the sun.”

            What can I say? Jeremy & I hit it off right away. No, not like that. & not nearly as much as he & Benjamin have—which I keep a very close eye on, of course.
            Jeremy ended up at the docks at 9 years old—his mother passed too soon & his father wasn’t great. He had a love for the water & came back year after year, made a reputation for himself as hard-working & polite. Regulars asked for him by name. The Hendricks began to feel like he was one of their own. So when he had an accident at 19—struck by a mast, causing blindness in his left eye—they decided they could keep him around, as he wished, as long as he understood his reduced role.
            The Hendricks are too kind for this earth, truly. Of course, both Jeremy & I had to prove ourselves. You should have seen the test checklist Mr. Hendricks—I mean, Bill—had me run through for my “interview” before he agreed to take me & Benjamin on (along with the “ok” from Mrs.—I mean, Debra)… & believe me, we work hard. Sturgeon Point Marina is no charity. All I mean is, sometimes, what’s needed is a chance others won’t give, & that’s what make Bill & Debra so, so generous & outstanding. It’s a nice life here, & I’m finding more & more I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Except for Benjamin’s sight, but I digress…
            I can tell Jeremy has taken a liking to me more than just a coworker, a companion, by the way he is too intent on watching me & my mannerisms, my reactions, & some of the questions he asks… but he is the utmost respectful, & understands I am in no place for such thoughts, feelings, or ideas.
            I did allow him to give Benjamin a little skipper cap. Makes me wish I brought my boater hat—which I purposely left in Los Angeles after it was bastardized the day before our departure—a day which seems farther away with each passing afternoon, with every brilliant sunset on the water. Thank God for that.
            …& thank God for the way Benjamin stands on the front of the deck out on the lake & points off in the distance, babbling words unintelligibly to the wind in his crooked captain’s cap. He is fearless. My dread subsides, even if slightly.
            I mean, look at him. How cute!

*                      *                      *

July 28
            Good God!
            Sitting down to get my recent thoughts down has proven to be impossible as of late, for the best of reasons. Is it legal to be this happy? I don’t know, but I’m going to try not to question it too much, for the moment.
            Even just a few minutes alone here & Benjamin has run back to our quarters with Jeremy in tow, is tugging at my sleeve as they’ve already started the nightly bonfire over on the beach.
            I’ll make this quick—as, admittedly, I cannot wait to join them: we found a fantastic pediatrician for Benjamin. Dr. Thomas Watkins. He believes his sight is not totally lost & may be able to be rehabilitated over time! Jeremy has begun teaching him to write, in hopes it will come in handy, eventually. I found a doctor, too—& possibly more importantly, a psychiatrist. Dr. Kimberly Gordon. Lord, have I needed it. Through this, I have begun painting again. What a dream!
            Surely there’s more, but that’s it in a nutshell. I’ve never been the best with words anyhow. Perhaps painting can better encapsulate my current thoughts & feelings.
            It’s worth a shot. I may switch back from this medium soon, to the one of which I am more comfortable. Maybe work images in as a companion to these journal entries. We’ll see.
            Benjamin is so antsy. My Lord!
            It’s down to the fire we go.

*                      *                      *

August 10
            You know, it’s tough when things are so good, but I’m going to do it. I have to.
            We’d be fools to forget the past, & although it’s hard not to bury it, I refuse to do so. The easy way out now often leads to catastrophe later, & don’t I know it. One of the most important things we learn from studying history is how to avoid undesired prior events from occurring again. How to be proactive, to stay aware, to keep eyes out for the familiar tell-tale signs that spell trouble, the omens that indicate disaster.
            Fear. Guilt. Anxiety. I’ve had my share.
            …& before these thoughts, feelings, memories slip further away—possibly into falsehood, if they haven’t already—before I can truly move on to this new life that is not without its fallacies, in which I constantly remind myself to stay guarded & grounded, I must get them down. Record them. Dissect them. Release them. A huge part of why I started this journal, an integral part of what it’s all about.

            Although it’s hard not to bury all of this, it’s even harder to relive it… & it’s hardest yet to find yourself clawing at the nightmare powerlessly from the inside out because of your own neglect once again…

            Debra insisted on taking Benjamin into town today. Bill & Jeremy were non-negotiable on me taking the day off, a day to myself. “You’re always doing too much,” they all tell me. What can I say? I love my beautiful son & my work here & all the people involved. But, I suppose they are right… & it does give me a chance to unwind & reflect, however hesitantly, in a different way than I’ve been able to since leaving L.A. I was an hour or so into my latest painting, a sunset on the lake which I am pleased with so far, when I found myself focusing too much on the darker hues—on dusk, sundown, shadow—& my mind wandered back to my life with Samuel. Started turning over new rocks, looking into different corners, drawing novel conclusions.
            Funny how it can all come crashing back like that in an instant, isn’t it?
            I’ve been feeling good enough, strong enough to do this—that tells me it’s the right time to take an initial stab at it. A stroll down memory lane. A pass through the past. A sit in the abyss where time is but a malleable construct, personal experience is up for debate (or at best inconclusive), & omitted trauma is the natural name of the strange game—as well as the twisted key to free you from your ragged cage. I’m sure more time will provide greater clarity, but already enough has passed that I have gained at least some hindsight on the whole thing.

            Here goes:
            I should have known from the start. Isn’t that always how it is? I mean, there’s no way I could have foresaw that day in the closet—I don’t think anyone could have—but as for the toxicity of my relationship with Samuel, as for who or, more so, what, Samuel is, the red flags were plentiful, freely flapping: a field of corroded dandelions, crimson as can be.
            I mean, not entirely, but that little caveat only exists because of how bizarre everything turned out to be. I don’t think I, or this, is different, exclusive, or “special”. Although I shouldn’t invalidate the severity, the peculiar dreadfulness of the whole thing, either. These things don’t happen all the time, do they? No… but essentially the problems at the heart of it all are quite common. I’ll explain.

            My little coastal hometown, Morro Bay, California, is not the most popular film location in Southern California. It’s more so known for its shoreline, wildlife, & natural beauty. That being said, it is still Southern California, & we get our fair share of tourists, transients, & filmmakers on a regular basis. I sure didn’t grow up in a bubble, & I’ve had plenty of boys & men of all ages, sizes, & types voice their interest in me, most rather directly. I couldn’t have been less interested.
            …Until Samuel came along, filming whatever it was. He & his Ambrose Pictures. He unknowingly taught me first-hand the definition of swoon. That should have been red flag number one.
            He was so charming, in such a unique, refreshing way. We just clicked… or so it seemed. It appeared we shared the same values—that even though I wanted nothing to do with filmmaking or a lavish lifestyle, that he understood that & admired me for it, that we both saw something in each other that others did not, that our hopes, wishes, & dreams aligned. Plus, he always smelled so good, looked so good, felt so good—just fit right, whether you want to attribute that to pheromones, mental gymnastics, or whatever else. The point is: it was real, at least at the time (even if only cerebral—isn’t that what forms your reality in the first place?) & I know he felt it, too.
            What should have been gigantic red flag number two: All of a sudden nothing in my life, nothing I had known up to that point seemed important anymore. Nothing except spending time & sharing space with him. The docks, painting, college, family, friends, independence, dignity—I left it all behind to live in Los Angeles (something I thought I’d never do, & often scoffed at people who did from my small town, blue collar pedestal), under his roof & his law. His world became mine (fraudulently), but mine never became his. I’m not going to beat myself up too bad because before I moved in with him, however quickly, it all seemed so genuine, so magical—rife with unreal & fantastic potential… which was just that: unreal & fantastic.
            He would get me into U.C.L.A. for painting, fine art, & history, & foot the bill scot-free. His friends would be my friends, & autonomy all my own. He & his production company had plenty of boats routinely on the water that I was welcome to board at any time, perhaps even captain if things went well. Money, power, status didn’t breed chauvinist pigs almost exclusively. Not always. These men respected women. These women respected themselves. Yeah, right.
            These women were mindless rubes masquerading as cosmopolitans—they made the Stepford Wives look sane, like frontline feminists with heads full of ideals & actions instead of dust & air. The L.A. version. All blonde, botox’d, & subservient. Really, a great cover for their wretched little fraternity, as I just figured that was how all L.A. women were. To me, they blended right in.

            Something that just came to me: they had only sons. All of them. I can’t think of one daughter among those couple dozen families behind Ambrose Pictures. I don’t know what that means, but it’s enough to chill me to the bone. My hair is standing on end on this hot summer day. Good Lord…
            Thank God I got Benjamin out of there. Did I really, though? The closet, his pointing & babbling episodes (that have become less & less frequent, but more poignant as he learns to speak), the fact that he’s blind. Yes, of course I did. No use in thinking that way. That’s the guilt talking. That’s what Dr. Kim, my psychiatrist, says, & I’m buying in. I have to, or… I just have to!

            …Anyway, what Samuel was never able to grasp about me (or if he ever did, he never let it be known), was that I’m not against a traditional-style household at all. I was raised in a traditional-style household, my parents have a traditional-style marriage, & it works. What Samuel & all of his depraved colleagues are missing, is a true sense of affection & equality. What it means to truly share your life with someone else. I’m not saying I know exactly how, but I felt I was ready to give it my all. The tragic part? I actually think he was ready to as well. It was almost as if the things he was caught up in, the sleazy, corrupt sides of his life (more than just sides—the real him, I must remember), were not 100% up to him… but, I digress, & Dr. Kim says that’s a very common line of thought after something like this. A sort of self-preservation of the mind, ego, self, whatever. I can’t recall all the buzzwords but I’m sure she’s right.
            Fuck Samuel. The bastard. Coward. I award him full credit on the impurity of his shameful existence. I am in no mood to offer forgiveness or repentance of any sort at this point in time. No thanks. Get lost.
            No deflection of blame can excuse how he told me I was a “real woman” over & over, only to revoke said sentiment the instant I “stepped out of line” or “disobeyed”; his obvious denial of authority aside from his own or that of his menacing syndicate, & his blatant disregard of anyone else’s time, wants, or needs if not convenient to him; as well as his total inability to listen to or to care for someone else while tossing those exact accusations at others like a discount-bin frisbee that implodes upon impact as if a homemade grenade concocted of buried emotions & spare parts.
            I’m not without my flaws, of course… but I digress.

            Another thing I can’t shake is just how odd those specialized OB-GYN appointments were. Not on paper, & at first they make you feel good, cared for, sort of like a queen. Another fantastic guise. An elaborate charade, I’m sure of it. I do believe he chose me because I was different from those other women. The heartrending irony is that that idea which brought us together, is the same one that forged our demise. Torn or not, his decision was made long before I was a part of his life, & he should have left me out of it.

            Just look at us now, Sam. Look at your son for Christ’s sake. Forget you, forget me—how could you do this to him? Nevermind that. I’ll never allow you to see him again. This is my promise to him, to myself, to everyone & everything, so long as I live.

            …Which leads me back to that day I skipped my gyno appointment, the day after Benjamin’s 1st birthday, the day before we left.
            I’m there now mentally, emotionally, physically. I’m hearing the horror unfold. Feeling it. Breathing it. Drowning in it. I’m crossing Samuel’s study. Reaching for the closet door…
            No. It’s too much. I’m not ready for that part yet. I need to pull back into the here & now.
            I should get out on the water for a bit. Clear my head & heart. Breathe.

            …& where is Debra with my precious little Benjamin, anyhow? I need to give him a nice big squeeze, kiss his head & face.
            There’s no way he could know this, but he’s always been the leader here, not me.
            It’s true.
            I’m merely following along.

*                      *                      *

September 23
            Something isn’t right. Godblessit, I can feel it. Something has shifted. Something is… off. Just as sure as today is the first day of fall with a turn of the page, from one box on the calendar to the next—as sure as summer is dead, ushered into oblivion by the late September winds & the dim tolling of the solemn bell that is the autumnal equinox—something is different. It’s undeniable. Palpable. & no one else seems to notice.
            Only my beautiful Benjamin has acknowledged it, & that’s fine because he’s the only one who can comfort me anyway. He put his little hand on my thigh after I sat down—trying to remain unshaken, trying not to let him see his mother a nervous wreck over something stifling yet intangible—looked me in my eyes, his milky pupils locked on mine, & said, “Mama. All ok. Ok all,” & gave me the most endearing little hug. My heart simply melted under the redeeming warmth of his uncorrupted sincerity.
            My precocious little Benjamin undoubtedly feels what I’m feeling, something in the very air, but instead of being disturbed by it like his mother, he is reacting to the phenomenon with aplomb. With what appears to be optimism, perhaps even joy. He then points toward the lake from the window in our quarters, his eyes never leaving mine, & says, “Not look back, mama. No see behind. Now is now. Us ok.”

            Obviously I’m biased, but he is so doggone astute for not even one & a half years old. His learning curve has taken off like a rocket to the moon & he’s making some darn fine points. Dr. Tom, his pediatrician, agrees his pointing “events” (as he so kindly puts them) have become much more controlled, & he’s using words as opposed to garbled gibberish. He still always points in the direction of the lake—west—no matter where we are or how he’s oriented, which is quite fascinating for a one & a half year old blind boy, no doubt… but requires more study to draw any valid conclusions. “Just because I’ve never seen it, does not mean it doesn’t happen,” Dr. Tom told me. “Plenty of cases I’ve never heard of are diagnosed on a daily basis & plenty more are never brought to the attention of a medical professional at all. I wouldn’t read too much into it,” he said.
            Jeremy’s writing lessons with him seem to be making progress, even though it’s still not any easier letting him out of my sight, or leaving him under complete supervision of someone else. One thing at a time, Dr. Kim tells me. One thing at a time. We’ve been through a lot the past few months & sometimes we need to just pause for a moment & give ourselves a round of applause. Tell ourselves we’re proud of us. Just keep moving, keep being gracious day-in-day-out, take things as they come.
            She’s not wrong. Not at all. She’s a great doctor & I like her a lot. She makes the mundane sound profound, & the elusive feel natural.
            Benjamin & I, we truly are blessed. To be here, after everything. Speaking of which, I have an appointment with Dr. Kim in half an hour. I’m interested as to what she’s going to say about this suffocating sensation lingering all around us today. Inside us? Yes. That’s true. We are both inside it, just as it is inside us. Benjamin & I, at least. I know I’m not crazy. It is real. It’s visceral.

            Although it’s a totally new experience—uncharted & mysterious—it is at once friendly & familiar, as well.

            Why does it frighten me, but enliven Benjamin? Perhaps it’s a projection of our individual perspectives, traumas, memories.
            Ah—to be fresh in this world again. To have a clean slate of psyche & soul, to live in a perpetual state of naïve childlike wonder & innocence.
            Perhaps that’s what we’re all trying to get back to, constantly fighting an unwinnable battle most of us don’t even realize we’re fighting.
            Good God—I’ve put us behind now.
            Benjamin is already standing by the door, staring at it quietly—hat, shoes, jacket on, ready to go. I don’t doubt for a second he’d already be pulling up to her office if he were capable of hopping behind the wheel of a motor vehicle & throwing it in drive.
            My boy is going places, I can tell. There’s nothing that could ever make me happier, as his proud mother. If anything, I gotta take notes. I gotta keep up!

*                      *                      *

September 30
            Jeremy has no idea how lucky he is that my son is here with us tonight & not out with the Hendricks or down at the beach 200 feet away, far enough out of earshot but still within my sight. He should be worshipping the ground Benjamin walks on right now, kissing his feet, offering him complete servitude for life—& I’m sure he’d try to, if I didn’t just have to use every drop of restraint contained throughout my entire being to remove him from our quarters peaceably.

            Otherwise, I’d’ve put his head through one of these walls. Christ as my witness. So help me God.

            I vowed to never fight in front of my son. I refuse to ever subject him to that for as long as I live. Contention & violence have never been a part of my natural behavior. But, I swear to the Holy Almighty, if it wasn’t for the presence of my son, I’d’ve beaten Jeremy Walsh to a pulp tonight with the nearest adequate object I could find, instead of writing this. The sick, miserable son of a bitch.
            I’m in shock, utter disbelief. After all that I’ve confided in Jeremy, too. Thankfully, not everything. But more than enough. The snake-skinned slimeball. I can’t believe I trusted that creep alone with my son! Have I learned nothing? What the hell is wrong with me??
            Firstly, it was the hat. Of course it’s the hat. I made it crystal clear months ago when Jeremy (Lord, I don’t even want to write his name) asked permission to give Benjamin his little skipper cap, then asked if I’d like a boater hat. I could not have been more direct that the gift for Benjamin was fine, but not to ever start getting any ideas for me under any circumstances, especially that loathsome skimmer cap!
            …& if it had just been that tonight, maybe we’d be ok—but the lies on top of it are something I have zero tolerance for… yet even that pales in comparison to what now lies before me… that which is impossible to make sense of…

            Hold on.

            From the beginning:
            I had left Benjamin with Jeremy for one of their writing lessons while I ran a couple errands. Upon returning to our living quarters, I found the quiet… peculiar. Usually, when the two of them get going, there’s no stopping them. This image hit my brain that had so quickly become customary: Benjamin & Jeremy together, laughing, joking, learning, playing, & it made me happier than I could have ever imagined possible before having a child.

            …& well, that was that. A weird dream-like memory of another chapter’s end. Likely, the happiest I have ever been.

            Because tonight when I arrived, Benjamin was asleep in his crib & Jeremy was sitting quietly on the sofa reading a book on fine art. We exchanged silent greetings & before I even got my shoes off I looked across our living space—past where Jeremy sat reading, past where Benjamin slept in his crib in our “bedroom” nook, past the “creativity & learning” area in the adjacent corner—outside to the upper deck. There, on the patio table, was the hat. The boater cap, for Heaven’s sake. A Godforsaken skimmer.
            Just like the one my father gave me as a coming-of-age gift all those years ago. It carried so much more meaning than the object itself—it was a token of respect, the passport to freedom, my license to live. The same kind of hat I purposely left in Los Angeles after that fateful morning. Going to grab that hat before I spun up the coast for the day was the primary catalyst that led me directly to the most disturbing & traumatizing occurrence of my life.

            I know for a fact there is still so much I have to unpack there—& it is an additional journey to all the others, for the rest of my days, now that it has occurred
            …Like if I did the right thing by unintentionally interrupting Samuel’s secret ceremony, or not:
            a. To never have a change of heart that day, to continue to live not even a fraction of what one can truly call life under the thumb of Samuel & the rest of the wicked grifters at Ambrose Pictures, & henceforth never disturb whatever that was in the closet, OR
            b. That by standing up for myself I obviously was on the right path which led universally to the interruption of the horrific ritual & the saving of my sweet little boy from whatever road that would have spawned—while at the same time invoking his blindness & our escape.
            Furthermore, I never really felt like I had a choice in any of this anyway. So, yes, seeing that hat around does trigger me, for reasons more complex than I am even able to begin to explain.

            Of course, Jeremy could never understand any of this, nor would I expect him to. He could have admitted he was wrong, owned it, & maybe we could have moved on. I’ll never understand why liars continue to lie, even when they know the jig is up. I just needed him to try, not lie.
            But—no. Just point blank dishonesty right to my face. Deny, deny, deny. I know all the little quotes half-assed “men” like to teach each other, the ones they repeat almost constantly, their “code of conduct” & “moral agenda” & “wellness checks” & on & on & on.
            I had to draw the line there. Especially after all that Benjamin & I have been through. & we still haven’t gotten to the deranged part.

            “Yeah, it’s not from you, Jeremy?” I said, heading straight for him, keeping my voice as low as possible through my anger as not to wake Benjamin. “It’s just the magically appearing skimmer cap, is that right?” I was inches away from him, right in his face. “The very hat you offered me, I declined, & is now out on the deck for some other unknown reason?” I locked eyes so he knew just how serious I was. “Please, leave our home, Mr. Walsh.” I turned toward our “creativity & learning” corner where Benjamin & Jeremy usually are when I arrive & nearly fainted. All the air left my lungs, my heart stopped beating, the world spun upside down. I’m still not sure if what I’m seeing is real, & I’m looking right at it…

            Masterfully done, in the dead center of my latest painting of the lake at sunset, is some sort of skeletal abomination—torso & arms of man, skull & antlers of elk, wings of bat, standing up on its hindlegs of kangaroo—cloaked in a black satin cape atop a rowboat edging ever-closer to shore: angled precisely in the direction of the viewer.
            Next to this is a painting of the lake covered in snow & ice—something I have not yet experienced first-hand. The portrait of the landscape is brilliant—the use of light to create shadow; the color palette & how utterly believable it is, how natural; the brushstrokes themselves, not one out of place, none too long nor too short, nothing rushed nor dwelled upon. Done in the same style as the black silk-cloaked skeleton creature superimposed over my painting. A ravishing blasphemy, a flagrant desecration of my work—terrible & hideous, an unholy villain conjured from a poisoned imagination—yet so enchantingly crafted.

            It was the name written on the winter landscape painting that put me far over the edge—no chance of return. In the bottom right of the masterpiece, there it was, in perfect lettering:

“Benjamin S. Stillwell, 2002”

            In the same spot on “mine”, the one with the exquisite monstrosity—creeping its way, moment-by-moment, toward the audience—in the same hand as the previous:

“Daddy’s Almost Here
Collaboration: Stillwell, Mother & Son, 2002”

            Jeremy Walsh’s rebuttals were useless. He went on & on & on about how he knows nothing about this—what are these baffling & disturbing paintings? How could Benjamin have done these? When?
            I’m taken aback by his reactions. They pull me out of the shock I was immersed in.
            “My son? My son?” I couldn’t control maniacal laughter pouring out of me, kept as low as possible. “You mean my one & a half year old blind son?” The laughter erupted from me, making me feel sane for the moment. I was doing my best not to disrupt Benjamin’s sleep, him at the front of my mind, all the while aware of the irony that if he awoke, mama sounded jovial. “Surely, you don’t mean this son, do you, Jeremy? Surely, I must have another I’m unaware of that you’re referencing. Surely.”
            “Nora, I really don’t, I mean, this is insane—I can’t even paint! You think I did this? To try to make it look like it was Benjamin? For what? Just to mess with you? I know this is insane, Nora, but what makes more sense?”

            I took another look at the paintings. It was too mind-boggling, too bizarre. I didn’t have a clear answer, but I knew I left Jeremy Walsh to watch after my boy. I know, somehow, something very perverse happened here… something that’s still happening. I had less than zero time left to try to figure this out with Jeremy. One more look on the upper deck. The hat. He just had to overstep the line, he had to get the hat. As if the rest wasn’t enough, that alone seemed to be the most important thing right then. & the rest was absolutely staggering in comparison—but maybe that was just it: it was too overwhelming to be absorbed properly.
            “Jeremy, leave,” I told him. “Now.” Benjamin fussed in his sleep. “This is beyond the fact of my son’s age, his visual impairment, or his less-than-no experience with oil painting—or painting at all for that matter, given the aforementioned. Beyond allllllll that, he’s never even seen snowfall, freezing temperatures, or winter, & neither have I,” I seethed. Benjamin shifted some more. I could tell he was about to wake. We had some serious moves to make. I needed Jeremy out.

            Jeremy stumbled all over himself—orally, mentally, physically—trying to get a word in, any word at all. I enjoyed watching him squirm for a few seconds. He had something to do with all of this—or, at best, somehow allowed it to happen. Benjamin woke up. I was assertively ushering Jeremy down the stairs.
            “If you have any respect at all you will just get out of here,” I hissed. “It’s not helpful & it’s not about you.”
            Finally, I got him through the doorway. We met eyes ever so briefly through the diminishing space between the closing door & the doorframe as I sealed it & locked the deadbolt. His eyes were wounded, his face perplexed. He appeared sorrowful. Stunned to silence. But mostly frightened.
            I knew instantly it would be the last time we’d see each other. I am totally fine with that.

            As things rapidly fall apart tonight, I’m feeling more & more calm. Lucid. Sane. Vaguely grasping a budding acceptance of whatever comes next. No more running.
            …& I am not at all certain if that only means I am so deep inside the madness of all of this, that I can no longer see how mad I have indeed become.

*                      *                      *

Sep…tober ?
            Why am I up? Why am I back on the same night?
            A few reasons:
            1. This has been one heck of an evening with Benjamin. Easily the toughest couple hours since we’ve been off on our own. It turned out for the best, though. Now we are once again on the same page. Of course we are—how could we ever be anything otherwise? It’s amazing the things we are able to learn when we remember to sit quietly & listen to those we love & respect, instead of just firing off at the mouth about things we think we know oh so well.
            2. Because I feel a complete calmness I have not felt since leaving. Since before L.A., since back home in Morro Bay—years ago, really. It’s confusing with how everything has unfurled tonight, but I’m just not afraid. I’m finding an inner strength deeper than I knew I had, deeper than when we left California. I’m not just “staying strong” for Benjamin, feigning wellness that he can see through from a mile away. In fact, I’m getting strength from him rather than trying to give it to him. That may sound ridiculous, twisted, unjust as I speak of my one & a half year old baby boy, but it’s true. I’m not going to try to cover up the truth—especially not here, not now. Benjamin is certainly not like other toddlers. I mean, he’s not like other people. & I feel an endless well of his utmost-composed peace & stability at its ultimate potency, though I should be so foolish to believe it is. I am not doubting Benjamin one single shred! Only myself.
            Maybe because of:
            3. What we’ve been through already. That morning. The closet. Nothing could be worse than that… at the time. I’ve come to find I completely misunderstood that entire affair. This is not an easy thing to admit, but once it clicks there’s no going back—nor do I ever want to. It makes the everyday minutiae seem so small. Gives perspective on the things we worry about constantly. One of those rare “zoom-out” kind of flashes where you are eye-to-eye with something greater, something deeper—& that you’re ready to handle it, that you must be up for the task, or you wouldn’t be there. It can only come when you’re ready for it, & most will never get there… & that’s ok. I mean, I wouldn’t listen to a word coming from Samuel’s mouth in the aftermath of what I experienced that afternoon… & I took Benjamin & took off our first possible chance the next day.

            This is not going to come off in a logical or reasonable way. I don’t know if I’ll even explain it right, as I still don’t totally comprehend the thing… I just know the feeling when something snaps into place, a true Eureka! moment & I cannot humanly express enough gratitude toward my boy—not in this dimension anyway… but if not for him I’d still be in the dark, likely through the rest of my days… nights… in-betweens… Benjamin is the only one who can really reach me when things get serious… & this tale I believe I am finally ready to tell is far beyond “serious”. In many ways, it is far beyond words altogether. Bare with us, or don’t. If you were there you’d know real quick that I am not making up absurd stories for attention, & I am not insane. I even feel level-headed enough—a far-reaching tranquility weaving its way through my very bones—to at last lay it down on paper. In fact, I feel like I must do this tonight. Like the stars have aligned. Like it may be my last chance.

            I’m realizing now how much my mind has blocked out from memory to protect itself. It is all coming back clearly, & in many ways it all makes sense. In fact, I feel it is the only sense. It’s still a struggle—it’s still fresh, still dawning on me in real time as I document my raw emotions & initial unfiltered thoughts here tonight—but I can see it now. Enough has been decoded for me at its core that I can get by on my newfound, unwavering faith as the rest of the story continues to unfold.

            I know Benjamin cannot be wrong. That alone is the pivotal crux on which I devote all of my belief.

            He wanted to tell me sooner, but was still piecing it together himself, & was concerned I may not have been ready yet. Which, he was almost right. The paintings were quite an aggressive test—but it had to be aggressive, given the nature of the entire concept. Benjamin could have kept his mouth closed after I tossed Jeremy out, could have allowed me to place all blame on him like I had already begun to do. He could have let me go insane with puzzlement, baffled to madness if he really thought I wasn’t equipped to handle it. But here we are… & that only further proves that I am more than fit for what lies ahead, & that Benjamin was of course correct in his determination. I am his mama, after all.

            This is a new day of a new age. Reality has forever changed. We are in the middle of something else entirely. This is now our life.

            I’ll try to explain:
            Although I haven’t been able to identify it previously, my innate belief this whole time has lay with fate over free will. That I have had no choice but to do the things I have done, which couldn’t be further from the Truth.
            This is cause for great joy! A marvelous source of celebration! Tremendous reason to rejoice!
            Predetermined destiny is a lie I lived by subconsciously, thereby allowing me to fall into the hands of a superior evil that Samuel & the rest of the wise esoteric angels who bravely shoulder the helm of Ambrose Pictures fight so vitally against. It takes formidable forces to combat such evil, such subliminal omnipresent persuasions, so much so that those representing Light, Truth, & Righteousness can easily be mistook for the opposite, the precise inverse: an adverse universal dominion embodying the false presumed-to-be obligatory narrative defined by ignorance, complacency, fallacy, dominance, & deceit.
            I had to see this to see what truly happened in the closet. My mind protected me from insanity with whatever defense mechanisms it could—repressing the memory, belief of my own account based on pure emotion, a self-satisfying validation when I gave us a new beginning across the country—until my beautiful blind little prophet removed the veil.
            Thank you, Benjamin, for opening my eyes. I only hope to one day reopen yours.

            Opening the closet door did not lead to the closet. It led into a fiery cavern of what appeared to be Hell itself. Heat, Light, Truth. At the center, around a spewing hill—a small volcano—was the Ambrose Pictures crew. Numerous odd little alleys, corridors, pathways reached back from the main chamber—like arteries from a heart, carved into the scarlet bedrock, myself entering through one of them.
            Gaunt creatures moving in & out of the shadows emitting the sounds I heard through the door, into our home. The film crew chanting, swaying, holding hands—all blindfolded, wrapped in hooded black robes. Samuel, closest to the lava-spouting mound, held Benjamin—blindfolded as well—up to what I now know is the Truth, the Light, the Way, extending him so close that flames whipped around the soles of his shoes.
            Benjamin was calm, docile, seemingly unaffected by this pandemonium raging all around him—this chaos waging war on all senses. Hot, hot heat; the odors of tar & sulphur; the foul taste of perversion in the air; the unearthly garbled squalls of the bony shadow beasts & the chants of the film crew… & it was then I called out his name & Benjamin lifted his blindfold, just as Samuel offered him completely to the flames erupting from the centerpiece—letting out a confused cry of “Mama?” that echoes on forever in my mind—attempting to look in my direction… followed by his shrieks as he was blinded by the inferno blazing forth…

            They’re not evil & they never have been. Benjamin has assured me of this now. It was a cleansing. The removal of squalor. The introduction to the Light, the Truth, the Way. A pure beginning. A reverse baptism, if you will.

            After I listened to everything he had to say tonight, Benjamin crossed our quarters calmly, without issue—not only avoiding every object in his way, but doing so with grace—& slid open the glass door to the upper deck. He stepped outside, paused for a moment, staring in the direction of the lake in the pitch darkness, completely still except his head slowly scanning back & forth… then seemed to lock onto something out there & began jumping up & down in jubilation, sheer ecstasy, unhinged bliss. He grabbed the skimmer cap still sitting on the table & stepped back inside, sliding the door shut smoothly. He walked up to me, looked me dead in my eyes with a sympathetic look in his milky white pupils & said, “Try, mama.” He blinked in earnest. “Yours. Look.”

            & I do. How can I not?
            Inside the cap.
            No gift from Jeremy.
            My hat.
            From my pops.
            His initials.
            Written over.
            My initials.
            Beat up.
            Try on.
            Fits well.
            No… perfect.

            Worry gone.
            Sleep best.
            Good night.

*                      *                      *

OCT 1111—AlwAys Smauel rite. I rUNn Y? N o senSe. Ben
jaMIn kno,. Lso 4giV.                                    He t aKe leeD. Safe WE   now
                        FaMlee agg eN.
all oK

                                                                                    ok aLL.

*                      *                      *

OFFICIAL TRANSCRIPT RELEASE—EMERGENCY 911 CALL

Erie County Sheriff’s Office
October 1, 2002
07:04:22
(3:36 length)

911 Operator: Erie County 911. State your emergency.

Jeremy Walsh: [Frantic] What the… What the [Redacted] did I just witness?

911: Try to remain calm, sir. What is the nature of your emergency?

JW: [Heavy breathing] Kidnapping. I think. Kidnapping. [Unintelligible] Nora. Oh, Nora. Ben!

911: What is your location, sir? Name?

JW: They took the rowboat. What was that? [Sobbing] Like the painting. Skeleton [Unintelligible] black hood. Backward legs. [Retching]

911: Where are you located, sir? Do you know the address?

JW: Sturgeon Point Marina. She was wearing the hat. He–no, no—it, that [Redacted] thing put the hat on her before they left. On rowboat. Against current. All three.

911: Deputies en route, sir. Please identify yourself.

JW: Jeremy Walsh. Tried to explain to Nora. Couldn’t sleep. Came first thing. What the [Redacted] was that? Have what I think is… [Shuffling] I think it’s her journal, left on the dock. What was that thing? [Unintelligible] Just like painting. Eight feet tall. Antlers. Wings. Bones. Took them. Took them away. Nora. Ben! [Screaming]

911: Take some deep breaths, Mr. Walsh. Help is on the way.

[END CALL]

Upon arrival Erie County Sheriff’s deputies found Jeremy Walsh, 24, [redacted], sitting on the dock, holding his knees, shaking uncontrollably. Visually impaired. No sign of drugs or alcohol. Nora Stillman’s journal (reproduced above) by his side. Rowboat missing.

Ambrose Pictures, based in Los Angeles, California, continues to operate with no trace of Samuel Stillman. They are connected to almost every form of audiovisual media you view today.

Nora Stillman and her son, Benjamin Stillman, have never been found.

 Please contact 716-847-TIPS with any information that may be useful in this case.