by Pallavi Tripathi, Durg
The town of Oakridge was a peaceful spot, a safe-haven settled in moving slopes and thick woods. Everybody knew their neighbors, or so they thought. Yet, when murmurs started to flow about kids vanishing, the serenity was broken.
Analyst Clara Vance was brought in from the state capital. She wasn’t one to be shaken effectively, yet the case documents agitated her. Two youngsters had evaporated over the most recent a half year, and another, a young lady named Ellie, had been accounted for missing only three days prior. No bodies, no observers — simply quietness and dread.
Clara left her vehicle outside the humble place of Ellie’s folks. The mother, Sarah, opened the entryway, her face pale and eyes empty. “Criminal investigator,” she murmured. “If it’s not too much trouble, see as her.”
Clara gestured, venturing into the family room where Ellie’s dad sat gripping a teddy bear. The room possessed a scent like lifeless espresso and gloom. “Let me know everything,” Clara expressed, taking out her scratch pad.
Sarah described how Ellie had gone to the recreation area down the road yet never returned. “It was open air,” she cried. “How is it that this could work out?”
The recreation area was Clara’s most memorable stop. It was abandoned, save for an elderly person taking care of pigeons. She moved toward him, showing Ellie’s image. “Have you seen her?”
He squinted. “Perhaps. A young lady was here a couple of days prior. She was playing without help from anyone else. A man was watching her from the seat around there.”
Clara’s heartbeat animated. “Could you at any point portray him?”
The man grimaced. “Moderately aged, glasses, messy facial hair. He had some issues.”
She said thanks to him and brought in a sketch craftsman. The portrayal matched a man as of late seen close to the home of another missing kid. Clara dug through records, cross-referring to known guilty parties nearby. One name stuck out: Victor Path, a previous school janitor with an earlier conviction for youngster peril.
——————-
Victor’s home was on the edges of town, an incapacitated design encompassed by congested grass. Clara drew closer mindfully, weapon holstered yet prepared. She thumped, and the entryway squeaked open. The smell of mold and decay hit her like a wave.
“Victor Path!” she called out, venturing inside. The front room was jumbled with papers and void brew jars. On the wall, a collection of kids’ photographs sent a chill down her spine. Some were sincere, taken without the kids knowing. Among them was Ellie’s grinning face.
“Investigator,” a voice droned behind her. She twirled around to find Victor remaining in the entryway, a screwy grin all over. “How might I at any point help you?”
(To be contd. …)
