“The Summer of ‘96”

I went camping recently at Lost Creek, on the edge of Riverside, Ohio. I hadn’t been there since that family was attacked a few summers ago. That hadn’t been the only time something strange had found its way to Riverside, or Lost Creek itself, for that matter. It most certainly wouldn’t be the last either. I’d hoped that by giving it a wide berth these last few years, it would buy me some good karma.

After getting settled in, I noticed a worn red leather journal tied high up into a tree above my camp. I’m not sure why I decided to climb the tree and pull it down; something about it just called to me. I should have known better, mind you, but something about the call of a mystery always compelled me to do stupid things.

A lot of the pages were damaged from inclement weather or the passage of time. Others contained indecipherable scrawlings and weird little doodles I couldn’t make sense of.  I spent every night for a solid week relaxing by the fire in my camp and going over its pages.

With a little bit of time and effort, I was able to decipher a good portion of the journal. At first, I thought it was just the ramblings of a drug addict, but the more I read it, the more I changed my mind. You’ll understand what I mean when you read it.

The only other piece of evidence I could find in these pages was a Polaroid picture with the following faded markings on the back:

 “Reggie and Jenna ‘Summer of 96’

June 5th, 1996

Human beings are capable of extraordinary things. This isn’t a new thought or concept. The evidence of this surrounds us on a daily basis. A parent can become instilled with strength beyond themselves to save their child. A well-trained monk can withstand dangerous temperatures through meditation. A single person can lead a revolution.

The most extraordinary thing people are capable of is denial. Despite everything we’ve seen and done since the dawn of humanity, there are things many of us refuse to acknowledge. Maybe the existence of aliens or Bigfoot is where you draw the line. Perhaps the existence of untethered spirits or ghosts seems too far beyond the pale. For others still, religion is the thing that divides them.

No amount of evidence or direct experience can breach your understanding of the world around you once you’ve drawn that line in the sand. You’ll constantly explain away everything that you see that opposes what you believe to be true.

A late-night experience with a ghost is diagnosed as a night terror or sleep paralysis. A perfect circle in your cornfield is dismissed as a high school prank, rather than an alien landing. A miracle witnessed by many is chalked up to mass hallucination. There exists a near infinite amount of lies we tell ourselves every day to explain that which cannot be explained.

I used to be one of those people. Maybe you were, too, and that’s what brought you here. It’s also possible that you’re that kind of person currently, and you’ve “stumbled upon this by mistake.” You didn’t, but I know that’s what you’ll tell yourself. It’s safer that way.

In my youth, I believed in nothing, and nothing believed in me. I attached myself to every artistic scene I could and traveled the country, fueled by one substance or another. I answered that rebel yell with one of my own, like a lot of kids growing up in the 80s, or now in the 90s did. To quote Charles Dickens, “It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.”

I’d heard tall tales and urban legends around many campfires. I’d seen the Weekly World News at the checkout counters of grocery stores and pharmacies. I’d had conversations with people who swear they were abducted by aliens or had face-to-face encounters with Bigfoot. I’d met people from all over the world who wanted to share their religious beliefs with me. I saw all of those things for what they were, or what I thought they were at the time: nonsense.

I’ve always thought that people needed things like that to feel special. It was some self-defense mechanism to replace the awful world we lived in with one full of magic and possibility. They were creating some form of redemption or salvation, where none was to be had. All the while, I was convinced that we were all swimming in the filthy sea of humanity, and no one remembered where the life preservers were.

Everything I thought I knew about the world changed this summer. Maybe it was the drugs or the drinking that put me in a position to be open to that change. I’m sure that had something to do with it. The only thing I know for sure is that whatever it was, it gave me Jenna. Hell, maybe it WAS Jenna. Though it may sound cliché, she was unlike anyone I had ever met before or anyone I’ll ever meet again.

Jenna was the real deal, the genuine article. She was one of those “down-to-earth” sort of people you hear about but never expect to meet. When she spoke, the world around you faded away. When she laughed, time slowed down to a crawl. When she cried, the floodgates opened and torrential downpours rained down from the heavens. A moment with her felt like a lifetime well spent.

I met her earlier this week, where I’m attending a weekend-long grunge festival at Lost Creek in Riverside, Ohio. Live was in the middle of the last song of their set, “The Dam At Otter Creek,” when our hands touched while each reaching absently into a cooler for another bottle of water. I was all set to let it go and reach for another when she smiled at me and grasped my hand.

She led me over to a quilt beneath the shade of a Red Maple Tree. We shared that bottle of water and didn’t speak a word till Tod Weidner had sung his last note of the evening. There are some things that are just too sacred to interrupt.

We spent every moment together after that. We even found ourselves a gorgeous patch of land deep in the woods of Lost Creek and set up camp for the summer. We met each new day as if it were the biggest challenge of our lives and spent every evening basking in the glow of the fire and the things we had accomplished together…

June 15th, 1996

Our camp grew as the days passed, filling up with new friends and family we’d made along our journey. We have drum circles going all hours of the night, storytellers weaving their tales to enraptured audiences, and late-night hikes to explore the world on our own terms. We are like Gods in a realm of our own creation, we are immortal, we are…young…

June 20th, 1996

Last night, we decided to do something…different. I don’t remember who suggested it initially, but the idea spread like wildfire. It wasn’t long before the eldest of our storytellers gathered us by the fire to piece it all together. It just so happened he knew a story that could solve all of our problems. The fact that it is tied to local history cemented it at the forefront of our minds. His words felt like destiny, our destiny somehow.

I’ll never forget the story he told us that night…

When the area was first settled, the nearby river was the lifeblood of the community. It’s where they got their water, their food, and even washed their clothes. Their daily lives revolved around the ebb and flow of the water so much that it created a belief structure among the people there.

It started innocently enough. People praised the river for their good fortunes and condemned it for their losses. It was common to hear the phrase “The river giveth and the river taketh away.” It wasn’t until the first major flood that half of their community was washed into the flow and the falls beyond, and things took a darker turn.

Their leader gathered what remained of the community down by the river. Surely, someone had angered it to cause such destruction. People were ordered to grasp hands and form a circle on the bank.

Slowly, the circle moved into the river itself, each person supported by the people on either side of them. When they reached the center, and the water had risen to their waists in most cases, they called upon the river in song.

The words flowed from them as if they were in a trance, though they’d never sung such a song before now. The lyrics simply came to them all at once, and everything fell into place.

Down by the River
That ebbs and flows
It fuels our bodies
And feeds our souls

Down by the River
Our source of life
It eases our burdens
And lessens our strife

Down by the River
We’ll all grow old
We’ll stand here together
Our flesh is so cold

Down by the River
Our fates are sealed
The water brings judgment
Our sins are revealed

When the song ended, each member of the community was urged to reveal their sins to the river. Only when all of their sins were revealed could the rushing water cleanse and purify them. One among them would be chosen by the river as a sacrifice and washed away, never to be seen again.

Ignorant of the ways of nature and science, they made no connection between the flood and the rising fertility of the soil nearby. They only saw how their community flourished with each flood and subsequent sacrifice. The cycle repeated itself for years, until only one person remained.

A pregnant girl, not yet fully a woman, wept as her mother was swept away to her final resting place. Over the course of three days, she journaled everything she’d witnessed within the community. When she was finished, she tied the journal to a tree to keep it safe. She sang their song once more and met the current with a loving embrace.

Some years later, the journal was discovered by a man known only as The Curator. The story was passed on to others, and the Riverside Historical Society commissioned a plaque commemorating their love, loss, and community. It could be found next to a reflecting bench where Lost Creek met the Ohio River…

June 30th, 1996

We’ve had our share of problems over the last week. It’s to be expected with groups of strangers that grow too large, too quickly. It started out small, with simple arguments about chores and supplies. Not everyone has been pulling their own weight lately, and that understandably has a few people upset.

July 1st, 1996

Last night, the heavens opened and rained wet hell down upon us. We weren’t nearly as prepared as I’d liked to have been. Despite the heated conversations I mentioned, things had calmed considerably. This lack of preparedness, however, brought a fiery anger back to our little group.

Jobs around the camp that were previously thought to be completed hadn’t been done at all. The lies of those responsible were revealed as tents began to collapse, and supplies were washed away into the creek. The shrieks and cries of our new little family quickly turned to screams and accusations.

I’m sad to see things coming to an end. Nothing was stopping any of us from leaving and never looking back. A few of our number had already packed up what little they had left and took off by the time things quieted down again. It was just a camp, but somehow it felt like more than that to me. It felt like a home, like a family.

Jenna doesn’t seem worried, though. She claims she has a plan to keep us all together. At least, most of us anyway. She said that there would be some hard work and sacrifice ahead of us to rebuild things, but we’d rebuild bigger and better than before.

July 5th, 1996

Jenna gathered us all around the fire this morning. She reminded us about The River. She spoke about the story we’d been told. It was a beautiful story, sad, but beautiful. We were all in agreement that it had inspired us in ways we’d never been inspired before.

We all agreed to stay sober for the next few days to consider our options with a clear mind. As crazy as Jenna’s proposal seemed on the surface, worshipping The River as those before us had done, there was a beautiful simplicity to it. Nothing else we tried had worked, and most of us didn’t have an actual home to go to anyway. It was worth at least considering it.

July 9th, 1996

This morning, we reconvened around the fire. There was an electricity among us, a vibe that was something like excitement mixed with longing.  It only took one look around the circle to realize that everyone else felt the same way I did. Before Jenna even spoke, we had adopted the spirit behind it right then and there.

After a brief conversation, we decided to begin our journey down to the riverside, followed by the ghosts that came before us. We have preparations to make, so I expect it will be a few days.

Some might find it strange that we’ve suddenly found such a journey necessary, and to some extent, I guess they’re right. I know that there’s nothing I can say or do to help an outsider understand this any better, though, so we’ll have to agree to disagree.

Truth be told, it’s not something that can even be explained. More than anything, it’s an indefinable feeling that only those present right here and now could ever fathom. Some might call it paranormal, supernatural, or whatever word has since replaced those. All I know is that I’ve never felt more sure of anything in my life.

July 13th, 1996

Before we left this morning, we were a group of 30 lost souls seeking a singular purpose. After our gospel of the sacred water, our number had been reduced to 28, and we were more united than ever.

I feel like someone should keep a record of the events. Since I have this journal, I guess it will have to be me. Here’s what happened today…

* * * * * *

Like those that came before us, we carefully made our way down to the river’s edge. There was little conversation between us, but a strange mix of nervousness and excitement permeated the air. There was no question about our intent, no doubts about what was to come. We were determined and firm in our decision, with no consideration of what that might mean for us in the future. We were so young, and some of us would stay that way forever.

We were all so clueless about what to do once we got there. Everyone but Jenna, of course. This wasn’t the first time we counted on her for leadership, but it was the first time we collectively acknowledged it. Everything came so easily to her, even things that shouldn’t.

She gathered us by the bank of the river, churning madly in anticipation; perhaps even in hunger. It knew what the rest of us did not. Somehow, it too knew what Jenna knew.

She urged us all to grasp hands, like in the story, and slowly step into the strong currents. She said that if we all believed in one other, in our newfound purpose, we would always be safe. She began to sing the song gently, and one by one we all joined in.

Down by the River
That ebbs and flows
It fuels our bodies
And feeds our souls

Down by the River
Our source of life
It eases our burdens
And lessens our strife

Down by the River
We’ll all grow old
We’ll stand here together
Our flesh is so cold

Down by the River
Our fates are sealed
The water brings judgment
Our sins are revealed

I’m not sure what I expected. I’m not sure what any of us expected. One moment we were singing, and the next I heard a scream from the other side of the circle. It was Maya. I didn’t know her as well as I did some of the others, but I recognized her face as it swept past me in the current. She’d only been with us for a few weeks, a transplant from another group that had since moved on without her.

I’ll never forget the look on her face, the mixture of shock and blame in her eyes that was cast upon us all. The more she tried to scream, the more water she swallowed. No one stopped it, no one tried to save her. With our hands held tight together, we sang the song again loudly. By the time we were finished, Maya was gone forever.

We didn’t speak a word to one another as we returned to the shore as one and made the long trek back to our base camp. We barely spoke beyond the basic necessity as we dried out by the fire, our hearth. There was no party that night. In its place was a sense of confusion, and perhaps loss for those who knew her. Was this what it felt like to stand for something? To believe in something?

When I asked Jenna those questions, she merely pressed a finger to my lips and shook her head gently. She led me into our tent and we made love. It’s not till this moment, now that I’m writing it down, that I realize she solves all of the problems between us this way. I’ll have to be stronger in the future.

July 15th, 1996

Since that night by the river, five more of our number have vanished; most likely, fueled by fear or regret. They spoke to no one, nor left a note behind, so I suppose we’ll never really know. When all of this began, before that first big storm, we’d numbered somewhere near 40 people. As of this morning, we were down to fourteen.

There were fewer tents and ramshackle forest dwellings stacked together now. We spent most of the day uprooting what remained and shrinking our perimeter considerably. It would create less work in the long run, and with far fewer mouths to feed and things to clean, that also meant far fewer chores. Despite everything that’s happened, maybe things are finally looking up.

July 16th, 1996

I spoke too soon the other day about things looking up. Jenna and I woke up in the middle of the night to a screaming match between Eric and Jeff. They’d introduced themselves as brothers,  though not the blood-related kind. It was common for them to argue over little things and get worked up about nothing. Usually, they’d burn a blunt and chill out when it was over, but things progressed.

The rest of the camp awoke and gathered around them as they squabbled, louder and more intensely with every passing moment. By the time they started shoving each other, another guy named Nate and I jumped in to pull them apart. That turned out to be a mistake.

Nate managed to restrain Jeffrey with relative ease, but I wasn’t so lucky. I closed in and put what I thought was a calming hand on Eric. The next thing I knew, his fist was buried in my jaw. It wasn’t hard enough to break it, but it would hurt for a few days at the least. I reacted blindly, fueled as I was by those things designed to dull the senses and distort the mind.

Call it what you will, but it was just a push. A simple reaction meant to put some space between us. Like a plethora of human beings before me, and a plethora long after I’m shuffled from the mortal coil, I pushed him. Unfortunately, most people aren’t as close to the crags as we are.

The dull thud of his body and the creaks and breaks of his bones echoed in our silence. I can still hear it playing on repeat when I close my eyes. Those few seconds of still silence stretched out before me like eons mired in deep confusion and mortal terror. A sound like rushing water pounded in my ears as time resumed.

As I fell to my knees, the rain came again, judging me for what I’d done. I closed my eyes in silent reflection as the events of the summer bombarded me. The rain beat harder against my skin, a secret sadness breathing within it, pulsing against me. We were all connected in that sadness somehow; plagued by it long before we’d ever met one another.

It was Jenna, once again, who brought us back together. It was under her guidance and love that we saw the way. It wasn’t about me, about us. It wasn’t even about Eric. It was about The River.

As one, we wrapped Eric’s body up in sheets as the storm grew stronger. We fashioned the funeral shroud into a stretcher made of trees. The elements were at one another as we gathered on all sides to life him and began the journey back to The River, singing our song relentlessly as we moved.

Down by the River
That ebbs and flows
It fuels our bodies
And feeds our souls

Down by the River
Our source of life
It eases our burdens
And lessens our strife

Down by the River
We’ll all grow old
We’ll stand here together
Our flesh is so cold

Down by the River
Our fates are sealed
The water brings judgment
Our sins are revealed

The storm didn’t stop until Eric’s body had floated down the river and out of our lives forever. We had appeased her. No, I had appeased her. Whether that her was Jenna, or The River itself, it didn’t matter anymore. I was her favorite…

July 23rd, 1996

Things were normal, for the most part, this last week. Jeff, Nate, and Nate’s wife, Marise, left a few days ago. They swung by the market before they left for good and brought us an abundance of supplies as a thank you. I could see the same change in their eyes that I felt inside. The River had freed them, and it was glorious. The ten of us that remain are all closer than ever. The weather’s been nice too. We provided for The River, and The River has provided for us. All is as it should be.

July 24th, 1996

I heard someone crying and screaming in the woods a few hours before sunrise this morning, and followed the sounds to their source. There was a light rain, barely more than a sprinkle. Apparently, Autumn slipped down a gully and hit her head pretty badly. She might have made it had I gotten help, but who’s really to say? I’m not a doctor, no one here is.

I did the right thing, though. I stuffed her into a sleeping bag, zipped it up to dampen what were surely her death throes, and dragged her down to the river. She was a slight girl, easy to maneuver on my own. She was unconscious when we got to The River, which was probably for the best. I hear drowning is a terrible way to go…

I told Jenna what I’d done, and she understood. She assured me that it was the right thing to do, all things considered. The rain had stopped after all. She called me her hero. We made love out in the open last night, right by the fire. By the end of the night, we weren’t alone…

July 30th, 1996

Sasha was the next to go. An unfortunate accident. She slipped in the rain and fell on the axe we keep next to the wood pile. The rain stopped shortly after. Her cousin Toby left the following morning with a smile on his face and The River in his heart. Only Jenna knows that I was holding the axe at the time…

August 3rd, 1996

It rained again this morning. I see the rain so differently now. We thought our sacrifices would stop it, but it always comes back. Maybe there’s a different lesson here, a different purpose that even Jenna hasn’t caught on to. I’ll have to think about it some more.

Going back and reading this, I feel kind of stupid that I ever doubted Jenna, my perfect Jenna. My own personal Goddess of The River itself. Sometimes I can hear it flowing through her. In those moments, being close to her, even being inside of her, isn’t enough. I long to be touched by The River as she’s been.

By the way, Tom’s gone. I never liked that guy anyway. I’m not sure why, but there’s just always been something off about him. He was an easy choice, though, and an even easier kill. Do you have any idea how easy it is to smash someone’s head open with a rock? It was definitely easier than I expected, anyway.

This one was more public, and no one left at camp minded much. We took his body down three by three in that old stretcher made from trees, while Jenna led us in song, the way she always does.

Down by the River
That ebbs and flows
It fuels our bodies
And feeds our souls

Down by the River
Our source of life
It eases our burdens
And lessens our strife

Down by the River
We’ll all grow old
We’ll stand here together
Our flesh is so cold

Down by the River
Our fates are sealed
The water brings judgment
Our sins are revealed

No one left after, and I don’t think anyone will again.

August 10th, 1996

Things were quiet this morning until the rain came. It came out of nowhere and bombarded our camp. We hurried down to the river as one, all of us desperate to appease Jenna & The River for our own reasons. We wasted little time as we reached the bank, plunging into its raging waters.

Ben was the first of us in. I could have reminded him to grab my hand before he went in, as I’d grabbed Jenna’s behind me, but what was the point? One of us had to go anyway. Better him than me.

We sang the song again on our way back to camp, noting that the rain had already stopped by then.

Down by the River
That ebbs and flows
It fuels our bodies
And feeds our souls

Down by the River
Our source of life
It eases our burdens
And lessens our strife

Down by the River
We’ll all grow old
We’ll stand here together
Our flesh is so cold

Down by the River
Our fates are sealed
The water brings judgment
Our sins are revealed

I can feel The River growing stronger each time the rain comes. It’s building up to something. Jenna knows. She hasn’t outright said anything, but she knows. I can feel it. There are only four of us left now. I’m running out of time…

August 13th, 1996

Jenna and I had our first real fight last night. I pressed her for more information about The River, for more information on everything, really. At first, she refused. I’ve grown crafty in my time out here, however, and managed to convince her. It only took a small blade and just a little blood, but she told me everything.

It turns out that Jenna is a psychology major at Ohio State. She was working on a dissertation for her doctorate about cults, and simply joining one wasn’t enough. She needed to start it from the ground up, but she needed it to be organic.

She’d been drugging all of us from the beginning with some herb I can’t remember the name of. She was the one who placed the journal in the tree, and the one who told the story to our storyteller and had him give us a show months back. She had led us all to this from the start, with so little effort.  I was right that she had been The River, though only because she’d made it up.

At first, I was furious with her. Yet, the more I thought about it, the less angry I became. I remembered the old saying that if enough people believed in something long and hard enough, it could become real. I’m sure that’s what happened now. I felt it too deeply, too strongly for it not to be real now. I know The River and The River knows me.

August 18th, 1996

With so few of us left, I made the suggestion that we move a couple of tents and supplies down to the bank of The River. It was bound to rain again sooner rather than later, and it just made sense. Jenna seemed a little suspicious, but in the spirit of her ruse, convinced the others that it was best for us all. We were set up and comfortable before nightfall.

August 19th, 1996

Last night, when everyone but me had fallen asleep, the rain began. As has been the pattern as of late, it was coming down harder than we’d ever seen it. I crept outside without waking Jenna and carefully pulled the stakes holding Ash and Terry’s tent down. I stepped back into the treeline to watch how things would play out.

Ash woke up first, screaming as the bank overflowed and poured into their tent. Terry woke up as the water slithered over him and joined in the screaming. Jenna joined me outside just in time to watch The River take the tent away with them inside. We held hands until they were out of sight and their screams had faded. We made love again, and it felt like it was for the last time..

August 20th, 1996

It was just the three of us now. Jenna, The River, and I. This morning, she confessed to me that it was all over now. She had everything she needed. When I protested, she put a finger to my lips. Learning about her ruse had broken the spell she’d placed on me. Even the touch of her skin could no longer deter me from my goal. She didn’t know that, though, so I let her believe what she wanted.

She thinks she’s leaving here tomorrow, and that I’ll blindly follow her like a good little puppy. I can’t wait to see how that plays out. Neither can The River. She talks to me now too…

August 21st, 1996,

She gathered all of our things and did most of the packing before I woke up. Between the move and the weather, there wasn’t much left. I made the decision to abandon the tent just to have even less to take back. Before we left, I talked her into standing at the edge of The River. I wanted to sing the song one last time, and she obliged.

Down by the River
That ebbs and flows
It fuels our bodies
And feeds our souls

Down by the River
Our source of life
It eases our burdens
And lessens our strife

Down by the River
We’ll all grow old
We’ll stand here together
Our flesh is so cold

Down by the River
Our fates are sealed
The water brings judgment
Our sins are revealed

Just as she began to sing it a second time, I stopped. I slid a foot in front of one of hers and pushed her forward as hard as I could. I leapt down into the water next to her and grabbed the back of her neck. I slammed her face against the rocks a few times, until blood poured down her face and mixed with the rapids downstream from us. Then I shifted to sit on her back and shove her head under.

We sat that way for a while; Jenna, The River, and I. Long after she’d stopped struggling and the air bubbles had ceased to pop on the surface. I imagined riding her body down the River like a raft, and I have to admit that it made me laugh. What a sight that would be.

When I’d had enough, I shifted and let her body be taken by her own creation. I know my purpose now: to find others and show them the glory of The River. I still had the names and addresses of those who’d left, having promised to stay and touch. The River wants them home where they belonged, and who am I to argue? I’m sure I’ll find others along the way. It’s smart to have a backup plan, though.

Just like that girl from the story Jenna made up, I’m leaving this little journal behind. I’ll tie it to the old tree that, for months now, served us as the center mast of our home without walls before our move to the bank. With any luck, I’ll be back to claim it and no one will be the wiser. If I’m wrong about all this, they’ll never find me anyway…

* * * * * *

I’m sharing this in hopes that someone out there can shed more light on this mystery. Based on the names in the photo, I’m going to assume that this journal belonged to Reggie. I know there’s not much to go on, but it’s worth a shot. If nothing else, for the closure that the families of the missing people may find.

If I don’t hear anything soon, I suppose I can always get another hike in before the weather turns to shit. I’ll try to find that old path they took down to the river if I can. That river that ebbs and flows…