— “They don’t know yet.”
The old woman shook her head slowly.
— “That house always had a shadow over it. I told people.”
— “Why do you say that?”
— “Sheriff Miller lived there. For forty years. He was the law in this town.”
— “And?”
— “He was a strange man. Seemed upright, but…” She trailed off, looking uneasy. “People didn’t like him. They feared him.”
— “Why fear him?”
— “Hard to put a finger on. You just did.”
The next morning, the first results came in. Henderson walked over to Mrs. Gable’s and asked Mike to step outside. They stood by the fence, talking low.
— “We’ve recovered everyone. Seven individuals.”
— “Seven?”
— “Yes. All adult males. Preliminary estimate says they’ve been down there between thirty and fifty years.”
Mike was stunned into silence.
— “Seven people. Half a century in a well.”
— “Do we know who they are?”
— “Not yet. Forensics will take time. DNA, dental records, clothing fragments.”
— “How did they end up there?”
Henderson looked him straight in the eye. He wasn’t sugarcoating it.
— “They were murdered. That much is clear. Blunt force trauma to the skulls. A heavy object. High impact.”
— “Killed and dumped?”
— “Exactly.”
— “By who?”
— “That’s the million-dollar question.”
Mike went back inside Mrs. Gable’s house. He sat on the edge of the guest bed, staring at the wall. Seven men. Murdered. Dumped in a well on his property. By whom? When? Why? And most importantly, who were they? Seven men who vanished without a trace. Why weren’t they looked for? How did this stay hidden for forty years?
Questions without answers. Mrs. Gable sat down next to him and put a hand on his shoulder.
— “You okay, Mike?”
— “Not really.”
— “It was Miller. It had to be.”
Mike turned to her.
— “What makes you so sure?”
— “Who else? It was his well, his house. He lived there forty years, all by himself.”
— “Was he crazy?”
— “He seemed normal. Too normal,” she said. “Quiet, polite. Never raised his voice. But his eyes… they were cold. Like a man who didn’t feel anything.”
— “Did you know him well?”
— “You had to. He was the Sheriff. You needed a permit? You went to Miller. A dispute with a neighbor? Miller. He was the gatekeeper.”
— “No family?”
— “No wife, no kids. He said he was married to the job.”
— “Any relatives?”
— “A sister in the city, passed away years ago. A nephew. He’s the one who sold you the place.”
Mike thought about it. A lone-wolf Sheriff. Forty years in a dying town. Power, trust, and opportunity. And seven bodies in a well.
That evening, Mike had another talk with Henderson. The detective looked exhausted—dark circles under his eyes, a day’s worth of stubble.
— “We found something in the archives,” Henderson said.
— “What?”
— “Sheriff John Miller. Born 1930. Served as Sheriff from 1952 to 1992. Died in ’92 of a heart attack.”
— “Forty years in one spot?”
— “Yeah. It’s unheard of. Usually, guys move up or move on. But he stayed put.”
— “Why?”
— “He was ‘good.’ Low crime rates, perfect paperwork. No complaints. It was a quiet county. Why fix what wasn’t broken?”
— “Except for the seven bodies.”
— “Exactly.”
Henderson lit a cigarette and took a long drag.
— “I checked the missing persons reports for the region. Over those forty years, eleven men vanished. Never found.”
— “Eleven?”
— “Yeah. Different years, different backgrounds. But they were all travelers. And they all disappeared in or around Oak Creek.”
Mike felt a chill run down his spine.
— “You think they’re the ones in the well?”
— “Some of them, definitely. The others? Maybe they’re in other wells. Maybe they were never found at all.”
— “So there could be more?”
Henderson exhaled a cloud of smoke.
— “Could be. A lot more.”
Mike didn’t sleep that night. He lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. Miller—a lawman. For forty years, he was killing people. How? Why? How did nobody notice? And who were these seven? Someone’s sons. Someone’s brothers. Someone’s husbands. For forty years, people waited for them, looked for them, hoped. And they were just sitting at the bottom of a well, forgotten.
Mike closed his eyes and thought of his own family. He remembered his mother, young and vibrant.
— “Mom,” he whispered, “do you remember Uncle Jim? The one who disappeared?”
In his memory, his mother just smiled, offering no answer.
But Mike suddenly realized something with terrifying clarity. Uncle Jim, his mother’s brother, had vanished in ’78 on his way home from a construction job. They looked, but they never found a trace. His mother cried about it until the day she died. Jim wasn’t the type to just walk away. He’d promised to be home for the holidays. Oak Creek was right on the route he would have taken. 1978. What if…
Mike sat bolt upright. His heart was hammering against his ribs. No, it couldn’t be. It was too much of a coincidence. But was it?
The next morning, Henderson called.
— “I need to talk to you. Now.”
— “Did something happen?”
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