Werifesteria

• || two || •

Logan knew something was definitely wrong in Mrs. Hemingway's house as soon as he stepped through the door.

The scent of cigarette smoke almost clogged up his other senses, but not enough that he didn't notice the blood droplets scattered around and leading up the stairs. He needed to investigate that later on, when Penny could distract the old woman.

Lighting another cigarette, Mrs. Hemingway slouched down in a tattered recliner. Logan and Penny awkwardly sat down on a hard blue couch. He observed the peeling yellow wallpaper and dim lights.

Penny patted her knees, the way she did when she didn't know how to react. Trying to make her settle, Logan put his hand on her thigh, and she stopped, taking a shaky breath.

"Well?" Mrs. Hemingway droned. "Are ya gonna tell me about my son or what?" She laughed. "If you're here to tell me that he ran away, then you should probably leave, because I don't need that anymore."

"No, actually, I'm here to tell you what I think happened that night," Logan said, leaning forwards and clasping his hands together. "I want you to tell me everything about that night, from every last detail."

She rocked back in forth in her recliner, narrowing her eyes as she stared at the siblings. Then she breathed out a puff of smoke and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. "It was the first day in December. We were decorating the house, but Ryder was acting strange..."

Mrs. Hemingway told Logan how her nineteen-year-old son had been writhing around in his room all day, complaining about a stomach ache. She had brushed it off and told him to come help decorate the living room—Logan briefly noticed an old box in the back of the room labeled "Christmas, 1992" and realized that Mrs. Hemingway hadn't even put the decorations from thirty years ago away yet—but Ryder simply refused to leave his room.

That night, she went upstairs to say goodnight to Ryder when she heard him talking to someone. But no one was over, so who could it be?

"He just kept repeating the same words over and over again," Mrs. Hemingway told Logan, her eyes starting to well up and her wrinkled hands trembling. "He was saying, 'It wasn't me, it wasn't me.' He sounded so...so scared, so helpless, so I rushed into his room and he was lying in bed, twitching in his sleep. There wasn't anyone else there." She let out a shaky breath and sniffed again, wiping a tear away from her eye. "He, he didn't wake up when I kissed him goodnight, so I went downstairs to go to sleep."

"And the next morning, he was gone," Logan finished, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. "He just vanished, leaving behind his keys, his money, his clothing, everything."

Her head drooped. "Everyone just collectively agreed that he ran away, but not me. I know something happened that night with my Ryder that simply can't be explained, and I intend to find out."

"Me too, ma'am." Logan dipped his head. He could feel his heart pounding, and he put his hands in the pockets of his oversized red hoodie so that Mrs. Hemingway wouldn't see them shaking. Trying really hard to keep his cool, he smiled politely and stood up. "Thank you for that, Mrs. Hemingway. I promise you, I'm going to find your son."

"Wait." It was Penny who spoke this time, and Logan was prepared to shoot her an annoyed glare, but she shook her head and glanced back at the old woman. "What is Ryder's middle name?"

Mrs. Hemingway scoffed. "What?"

"What is Ryder's middle name?" As she repeated it, and Logan saw her eyes light up with excitement. She knew something. She definitely knew a piece of information that Logan didn't. So maybe Penny wasn't as useless as he imagined.

"His full name is Ryder William Hemingway," the old woman sighed. "But don't get your hopes up. He's almost forty-nine now." Her shoulders dropped and she stuck the cigarette back in her mouth. "How old are you two again?"