Day 1,287

I remember when I was four and our Sunday school group held a sleepover in our church.

I remember being worried more than excited to spend the night away from home for the first time.

I don't remember who woke me up that night and told me to hide but they saved my life.


That night eight children went missing and thirty years later they haven't been found.

There was no sign of a break-in, nobody heard or saw anything and everyone blamed the new pastor.

The papers blamed him entirely, linked his modern teachings to moral corruption.


He never stood a chance against them all, there were far too many of them versus one of him.

He took it well at least and made no sound until his skin had been completely removed.

He's still alive today, much as he wishes he wasn't.


All those years and nobody ever asked the surviving children what happened.

Back in those days, they just assumed we'd been lucky.

If only they had asked or our parents had listened.


If they had they wouldn't have sent us back to church the next Sunday.

Not if they knew what else lived there.

Not if they knew where the missing children were and what they were becoming.