After the police left, Eleanor sat staring at the phone, praying for it to ring with good news. Mrs. Henderson offered her something to eat, but Eleanor couldn’t stomach the thought. She said she felt like her world was collapsing into the unknown.
That night, Oak Creek didn’t sleep. Neighbors with flashlights searched crawlspaces, sheds, and backyards, calling Billy’s name into the dark. A police cruiser with its lights flashing slowly patrolled the side streets while Eleanor sat by the window, whispering prayers. Rumors began to fly through the small town about where the boy was last seen.
One person claimed they saw him near the soda fountain; another swore he was at the park. Every lead turned out to be a dead end. In the mid-sixties, there were no security cameras or cell phones to track a child’s movements. The search of the surrounding woods and abandoned buildings yielded nothing.
Days turned into a week, and the tension in town was palpable. The local paper ran front-page stories with Billy’s school photo. Citizens were urged to report anything suspicious, while the police systematically searched every basement and warehouse in the district. His teachers all agreed: Billy Thompson was a model student, not a runaway.
The school principal held assemblies, hoping a student might remember a small detail, but the kids were just as confused and frightened as the adults. A month passed, then two. Billy’s parents were living a nightmare, their health declining under the weight of the unresolved grief.
The investigation shifted toward two grim possibilities: a tragic accident or an abduction. Black-and-white posters with Billy’s face were taped to every telephone pole and storefront. The posters highlighted his main identifying feature—the dark birthmark on his right cheek.
Search dogs were brought in to comb the town dump and the riverbanks, but they found no scent. Devastated, Eleanor took a leave of absence from the store, and Frank struggled to keep his focus at the plant. The boy had vanished as if he’d never existed, and eventually, the town began to move on.
Six months passed since that Tuesday in October. Life in Oak Creek returned to its rhythm: the high school football games continued, the market was busy, and people went to work. But in the small house on Elm Street, time had stopped. The home had become a shrine to a missing son.
