Came Home From Deployment Early. Daughter Was Standing in a Hole. «Don’t Look In Other One!»
The house was dark when Eric McKenzie pulled into the driveway at 03:00, three days early. The deployment had been cut short after a diplomatic resolution nobody saw coming, and he’d caught the first transport out of Kabul.
It took sixteen hours of flying, another two of processing at Fort Bragg, and then the nine-hour drive home to rural Pennsylvania. He was bone-tired, but the thought of seeing his daughter Emma’s face had kept him awake through all of it. Six months—that’s how long he’d been gone this time.
Emma was seven now. He’d missed her birthday by two weeks, and the guilt gnawed at him during every patrol, every mission. But this was his last deployment. He’d already submitted his papers.
After twelve years in the Rangers, Eric was coming home for good. He killed the engine and sat for a moment, savoring the stillness. No mortars, no gunfire—just crickets and the distant sound of wind through the pines.
The house looked exactly as he’d left it: the blue shutters Brenda had insisted on, and the flower boxes that were dead now in late autumn. The tire swing was still hanging from the oak tree in the front yard. Eric grabbed his duffle and moved quietly to the front door, wanting to surprise them.
Brenda would probably be asleep, but maybe Emma had a nightmare and was up. She used to crawl into bed with him when she was scared. The thought made him smile.
The door was unlocked. That was the first thing that felt wrong. He’d told Brenda a hundred times to lock it, especially when he was deployed.
Eric pushed it open slowly, his training taking over. The house was too quiet. Not the peaceful quiet of sleep, but something else.
He moved through the living room. Dishes were in the sink, mail scattered on the counter, and Brenda’s purse was on the table. He climbed the stairs, each step careful and deliberate.
Their bedroom door was open. Brenda was there, sprawled across the bed in the clothes she’d worn that day, one arm hanging off the edge. An empty wine bottle stood on the nightstand.
Eric’s jaw tightened. He moved to Emma’s room, pushing open the door decorated with princess stickers she’d picked out before he left. It was empty.
The bed was made. Her stuffed rabbit, Mr. Hoppers—the one she’d slept with since she was two—was gone. Her shoes weren’t by the door.
Eric was back in the bedroom in three strides. He shook Brenda’s shoulder, harder than he meant to. She came awake with a start, eyes unfocused.
«Eric? What? You’re not supposed to be…» She blinked, trying to process.
«Where’s Emma?» His voice was flat, controlled—the voice he used when things were going wrong on a mission and panic would get people killed. «What time is it? Where is our daughter?»
«She’s at my mother’s,» Brenda mumbled. «I told you in the email.»
«What email? I didn’t get any email. Why is she at your mother’s at three in the morning?»
Brenda sat up, running her hands through her hair. «She’s been there since Tuesday. Mom’s been watching her while I… I had some things to handle. Work stuff.»
Eric stared at his wife. In twelve years of marriage, he’d learned to read people; it was a survival skill. Right now, every instinct he had was screaming that something was wrong.
Brenda wouldn’t meet his eyes. Her hands were shaking, and not just from being woken up.
«I’m going to get her,» Eric said.
«Eric, it’s the middle of the night,» Brenda protested.
But he was already moving. Back down the stairs, out the door, and into his truck. Brenda’s mother lived forty minutes away, deeper into the mountains.
Myrtle Savage had never liked him, and the feeling was mutual. She was a hard woman, cold in a way that had nothing to do with the Pennsylvania winters. She ran some kind of retreat center on her property. Religious counseling, she called it; Eric called it a grift.
The roads were empty. He pushed the truck harder than he should have, taking the mountain curves fast. His hands were steady on the wheel, but his mind was racing.
Tuesday. Emma had been there since Tuesday. Why hadn’t Brenda mentioned it in their last video call? Why had she sent their daughter to her mother’s?
Myrtle’s property was set back from the road, a long gravel drive leading to a sprawling farmhouse. Lights were on. That was the second wrong thing; nobody was up at this hour.
Eric parked and got out. The front door opened before he reached it. Myrtle Savage stood in the doorway, backlit by the harsh interior lights.
She was a tall woman, rail-thin, with gray hair pulled back in a severe bun. She wore a long nightgown and an expression that might have been concern on anyone else’s face. On hers, it looked like calculation.
«Eric. Brenda called. Said you were coming,» she said.
«Where’s Emma?»
«She’s sleeping. You shouldn’t—»
He pushed past her. The house smelled like bleach and something else—something organic and wrong underneath.
«Emma!» he called out.
«You’ll wake the other children,» Myrtle’s voice was sharp.
Eric stopped. «What other children?»
«I run a program here. Troubled children. Their parents send them to me for discipline and spiritual guidance.»
He’d known about the program but had never paid it much attention. Now, looking at Myrtle’s face, something cold settled in his stomach.
«Where. Is. Emma?»
«She’s in the backyard. Getting some reflection time.»
Eric was moving before she finished the sentence. He went through the kitchen and out the back door. The yard stretched into darkness, bordered by woods.
He could see shapes in the moonlight—structures that looked like small sheds or outbuildings.
«Emma!» His voice echoed off the trees.
A small sound answered him. Crying. He ran toward it, pulling out his phone for the flashlight.
The beam caught something that made him stop dead. A hole in the ground. Maybe four feet deep, three feet wide.
Standing in it, shivering in her pajamas, was Emma.
«Daddy?» Her voice was so small.
Eric was in the hole in seconds, lifting her out. She was ice cold, her pajamas soaked through with mud and dew. She wrapped her arms around his neck and wouldn’t let go.
«I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you,» he whispered. He pulled off his jacket and wrapped it around her. She was shaking violently. «How long have you been out here?»
«I don’t know. Grandma said… She said bad girls sleep in graves. That I need to learn. That I need to…» She was sobbing now, the words barely coherent.
White-hot rage flooded through Eric, but he forced it down. Emma needed him calm. He needed to get her warm and safe. Then he would deal with Myrtle.
«Daddy, don’t look in the other hole,» Emma’s whisper cut through his thoughts. «Please don’t look.»
He turned, and his flashlight beam swept across the yard. There, twenty feet away, was another hole. This one was covered with boards.
«Emma, I need you to close your eyes, okay? Can you do that for me?»
She nodded against his chest, squeezing her eyes shut. Eric carried her toward the house but stopped by the second hole. He had to know. He had to understand what he was dealing with.
Using one hand while holding Emma with the other, he pulled the boards aside. The smell hit him first: decay, earth, and something chemical. He shone the light down.
Bones. Small bones. A skull that was unmistakably human and unmistakably a child’s. Scraps of fabric remained, and something else—a metal tag, like a dog tag, with a name stamped on it.
Sarah Chun.
Eric’s training kicked in, overriding the horror. This was a crime scene. Multiple crimes. He took three photos with his phone, making sure to capture the tag clearly. Then he replaced the boards and carried Emma toward the house.
Myrtle was waiting in the kitchen with a cup of tea, as if this was a normal visit.
«She’s being dramatic. It’s only been an hour. The cold teaches them. Sit down,» Myrtle said.
Eric’s voice could have cut glass. «Don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t even think about running, because I will hunt you down.»
He carried Emma to the truck, started it, and cranked the heat. She was still shaking.
«Baby, listen to me. You’re safe now. I’m taking you somewhere warm, okay? Can you tell me who Sarah Chun is?»
Emma’s eyes went wide. «You looked. I told you not to look.»
«I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry. But I need to know. Who is she?»
«She was here last year. She was bad, too. Grandma said she ran away. But…» Emma started crying again. «I heard her screaming one night. And then she was gone. And Grandma said if I was bad, I’d end up like the girls who run away.»
Eric pulled out his phone and called the one person he knew he could trust. Donald Gillespie picked up on the third ring.
«Gillespie.»
«Don. It’s Eric McKenzie. I need you to get to 4782 Mountain Laurel Road right now. Bring backup. Multiple backup. And call the state police.»
«Eric? Thought you were deployed. What’s going on?»
«I just found a dead kid in a hole on my mother-in-law’s property. There might be more.»
Silence on the other end. Then: «I’m ten minutes out. Stay on the line.»
Eric looked at the house. Myrtle was in the window, watching. She didn’t look worried; she looked angry. That told him everything he needed to know. She thought she could get away with this. That she had before.
«Don, listen carefully. The property owner is Myrtle Savage. She runs some kind of religious discipline program for kids. My daughter was in a hole in her backyard. Said she’d been there for an hour, but I don’t know if that’s true. There’s another hole with remains. The victim might be a Sarah Chun.»
«Jesus Christ,» Don breathed.
«There might be other kids on the property right now. Myrtle said something about ‘other children.’ We need to get them out. I’m calling CPS and the FBI.»
«Eric, you need to get your daughter out of there.»
«Already done. I’m in my truck with her. But Don, I’m not leaving until I know every kid here is safe.»
«Do not go back in that house. That’s an order.»
But Eric was already moving. He turned to Emma. «Baby, I need you to lock the doors and stay in the truck. Keep the heat on. I’m going to get the other kids, okay? I’ll be right back.»
«Daddy, no.»
«I promise I’ll be careful. But those kids need help, just like you did.» He kissed her forehead. «Lock the doors. Anyone but me or a police officer comes near this truck, you lay on the horn. Understand?»
She nodded, terrified, but trusting him. Eric walked back to the house. The training was fully engaged now. He wasn’t a father anymore; he was a soldier clearing a hostile building.
Myrtle was still in the kitchen. She stood when he entered. «You had no right to—»
«Where are the children?»
«They’re sleeping. You’re overreacting. That hole is a therapeutic technique. It teaches humility and—»
Eric crossed the distance between them in two steps. He didn’t touch her, but she stumbled back anyway. «I’m going to ask you one more time. Where are the children?»
«Upstairs. But they’re fine. They’re here because their parents can’t control them. I’m helping.»
He was already moving up the stairs and down a hallway. The first door was locked from the outside. He broke it open with one kick.
Three children, all under ten, were sleeping on thin mattresses on the floor. No blankets. No heat. The window was barred from the outside.
«Wake up,» Eric’s voice was gentle but firm. «My name is Eric. I’m a soldier, and I’m here to help you. Police are coming. You’re going to be okay.»
They stared at him with the kind of hollow eyes he’d only seen in war zones. One little boy spoke up. «Are you taking us home?»
«Yes.»
«Right now?»
«Come on.»
He shepherded them downstairs. Myrtle tried to block the door. «You can’t do this. Their parents signed contracts.»
«Their parents signed contracts with someone who was burying children in her backyard. Get out of my way.»
She didn’t move. Eric picked her up bodily and set her aside. She weighed nothing. He got the three children outside just as headlights appeared down the drive.
