Chapter Text
April 8, 1991.
Ryan took a moment to rest his eyes from the monotonous road by glancing out the side windows into the passing swaths of pine trees. The longer he was out in the wilderness, or what he would call wilderness, the more the trees were the majority of his view out of the windshield. The never ending road ahead, marked only in difference by small bridges and potholes, lined by thick trees; it was something he wasn't used to.
When he looked out the front again, he had to slam on his brakes to avoid hitting a deer. He skidded to a stop inches in front of it, heart racing and fingers white from clutching the steering wheel. The deer stared at him over the hood, eyes open and blank. Ryan stared back, mouth agape. The radio fuzzed in and out of signal, music crackling with indistinct public radio voices - the only noise other than the sounds of the wood and the monotone of the engine of the car.
Finally, the deer decided to move. It sauntered the rest of the way across the road, like it hadn't almost died moments before. It took slow, delicate steps down into the ditch before turning its head to look back up at Ryan again.
Ryan looked away before their eyes could meet, and muttered something to the effect of, "Fucking creepy. Damn deer," as he moved his hands down to a more relaxed position on the steering wheel. He inhaled and exhaled deeply. He looked in his rearview mirror and out his windshield, checking for cars in front or behind him; when there was no one, he gradually got up to speed again on the road. The car creaked in protest from its sudden stop. This time, he decided to take it slower; he had been speeding before, and he took the deer as a sign to slow down. Better late to his solo investigation into Keddie than dead.
Funny he should say that; he was here investigating a recent missing persons case possibly connected to a murder in Keddie ten years prior. His coworkers didn't expect him to follow through on much, since his connection was a bit far-fetched. To him, it wasn't that off to theorize that a missing body found in the same square mile area as the missing-then-recovered last Keddie Cabin Murder victim could be connected to a new string of murders in the isolated town. Not to mention the victims were also members of an adjacent town, Quincy.
The road opened up a little more, thanks to the jagged rock formations building up the hills, but it didn't help with revealing Keddie. Comprised of nearly seventy people, if he blinked too soon, Ryan was afraid he'd miss it. The Keddie Resort sign was the indicator that he was in Keddie; otherwise, there wasn't anything else of note. He parked right in front of the building, and felt immediately out of place; like it was a gap not meant to be filled. The once-popular campsite and lounge now stood yawning and empty. He didn't like the way the pine building looked sickly grey and abandoned, and he didn't like how his gut wrenched at the sight. This was his job, he reminded himself, and urged the butterflies in his stomach to stay quiet. He'd be staying in Quincy, a significantly more populated area by Keddie standards, and not that far away. There he could keep an eye on Keddie while he worked with the Plumas County law enforcement. All he had to do here was scout the location and hopefully avoid interaction with any locals.
He exited the car and looked up at the main Keddie Resort building and its surroundings. The way he couldn't look far into the forest behind the building made him realize, damn, this place is creepy. He grabbed his messenger bag with information on the cases and camera bag, both of which he put on so the straps sat securely across his chest.
The cabins, all thirty-three of them, had cleared out since the Keddie murders; thanks to rumors of ghosts and the town's gruesome history, people filtered in and out of the resort and town. He supposed he would be one of those people to visit for the supernatural theories, if his circumstances for visiting weren't work-related. He believed in the existence of supernatural things, but simultaneously hoped he wouldn't encounter any in his time looking over Cabin 28.
He loaded film into his camera, an older yet reliable Canon, and didn't worry about much interference from light exposure. It was cloudy, which helped with light distribution, and thus would help with the quality of the photos. He did attach the flash to the top of the camera, for added security and for better indoor shots, which he had no doubt he would be taking. He made his way down the trail in the direction of the cabins. The only sound other than the white noise of the woods was his boots crunching on the gravel. He felt alone, yet still wary. He didn't know if anyone was still living in any of the cabins, so he'd have to watch himself and be prepared to explain he was investigating on behalf of the police.
Cabin 28 had yellow and white peeling paint and plywood boards haphazardly covering the windows. Ryan silently snapped photos of the exterior, flash discharging and then buzzing with a high pitch before indicating it was charged again.
The victim his department found near the recovery place of Tina Sharp was another young girl, of which had been missing from a family found murdered in Quincy three months prior to her discovery. The similarities between the murders was uncanny: a single mother and two children, murdered with a hammer and steak knife, mauled until unrecognizable. Like the Keddie murders before them, there was no clear motive for the murders. Though many people were willing to let a case like this slide into the cold category, Ryan was insistent in investigating the issue himself. He was relieved when his boss okayed his foray to Plumas County.
Once he was done taking photos of the exterior, he almost mustered up the courage to go inside - almost. Instead, he told himself he'd leave it for later and turned around. He trekked back to his car, where he unloaded his things into the passenger seat and left for Quincy. He eyed the rearview mirror as if someone would be watching; thankfully, he was wrong.
He had to swerve out of the way of a dead deer as he retraced his path to Quincy. It was the same deer he had missed not a half an hour earlier. The blood smeared on the road in thick tire lines from other people who passed by before him. Ryan repressed a shiver and turned up the radio for some comfort.
.
The Gold Pan Lodge was where he chose to stay. Reasonable prices per night and comfortable, said an ad in the local phonebook. Ryan's room was on the ground floor, and he moved in what little luggage he packed for the trip with ease from his car. Room 118 was decently furnished, and he was glad it included a desk. The CRT television sat dusty on top of the dresser. He had a whole queen size bed to himself.
Once he had unpacked, Ryan then sought out the Plumas County Sheriff's Department, which was around a ten minute drive from the Gold Pan Lodge. Doug Thomas, the current Sheriff and the same sheriff who was on the Keddie case, brought him a dusty old box of evidence and case files related to the case. Ryan figured the box hadn't been touched in at least five years. Thomas' hair was white and balding, and he smelled strongly of cigarettes. "Don't know what you hope to find in there, kid - your case seems pretty open-and-shut."
As he shuffled away, Ryan couldn't help but think, of course you would think that. He searched through the evidence anyways, recording the names of possible suspects which primarily included Marilyn and Martin Smartt, who were still residents of Keddie, and Bo Boubede, another possible accomplice in the original killings (though his current whereabouts were unknown). He was allowed to take the case file, and from there he took it back to room 118.
The television played in the background as he recounted the events of both the original Keddie murders and the new murders that were beginning to be referred to by the press as the Keddie Serials. Ryan mulled over the details of the case and found similarities: the binding and strangulation of victims, and also multiple, erratic stab wounds on all the recovered bodies. A crime of passion, yet premeditated.
When he left his room to get food and fresh air, he noticed his neighbor was outside of his room, sitting in one of the shitty plastic chairs left outside. He sat half in the shadows, legs splayed out in front of him. The stranger looked up at him but didn't move his head. His eyes reflected an unnatural green, and Ryan was drawn in at the sight. He kept eye contact as he began walking to his car, only breaking it when he was a good ten feet away.
When Ryan slipped into the drivers' seat, he looked up to where the person was only moments before. There was nothing in the stained white chair.
He started the car and, despite the hair standing on the back of his neck, assured himself it was nothing.
.
