The One
About
The Monster

Sara checks the comments first thing every morning. Her alarm goes off at 4 am and exhales a sorrowful beeping that tapers off at the end, as if the machine is running out of breath. She rolls over, blinks blearily, and turns it off with one hand while the other reaches for her phone. Then she starts reading. Before the rest of the world has come into focus, before she has even looked at the person sleeping next to her, she reads the comments.

She dreamt about the comment section again last night. In her dream she scrolled faster and faster, her screen a grey blur of theories and opinions, until the comments leapt from cyberspace into her kitchen and swarmed her. Now she is awake and scrolling once again, her brain focusing intently on this pre-dawn ritual, the transition between dreaming and waking dulled in the ghostly electronic light projected from the cracked screen of her phone.

The body beside her stirs and mutters something incomprehensible as it wakes. Sara expected him to leave straight after the conclusion of their sexual encounter last night, but he interpreted her disappointed disinterest as permission to fall asleep in her bed. As soon as she felt his breath deepen in his ribcage, she pried herself out of his embrace and curled up at the other end of the bed like an angry cat.

During the night, he repeatedly pulled the covers away from her and tucked them away under his heavy, warm body. Each time she awoke cold and angry, she fantasized that maybe if she shoved him out of bed, he would disappear into some dark abyss under it, never to be found.

He is awake now and scooting his body over to hers. You should leave, Sara says, quickly placing her phone back on the nightstand with the screen facing down. It’s still dark outside, temperature below freezing. But he leaves. Before he does, he calls her a bitch. But he lets the door fall gently into its locks on the way out.

She gets out of bed, makes coffee, and sits at the small formica kitchen table to continue reading on her laptop. The kitchen’s overhead lamp illuminates her with harsh fluorescent light, casting a short fat shadow on the linoleum floor behind her. Her complexion matches the kitchen’s grey tile backsplash. It has been fifteen minutes since the last time she checked. There might be something new.

Molly Barts disappeared two months ago and several clues about her disappearance have appeared on the internet since. First the letter, then the photos and finally the video. Sara doesn’t bother looking at the original posts anymore – she knows them well. Only the comments matter at this point. The internet is teeming with internet sleuths theorizing about where Molly might be. Keeping an eye on the comments has become a fulltime job. If anyone can crack the case, it’s the comment section. It is working overtime. Sara refreshes the page.

Molly Barts taught fifth grade at Lakeside Elementary. That’s how Sara knew her – Miss Barts had been her favorite schoolteacher. On Sara’s eleventh birthday, Molly gave her her personal copy of Stephen King’s It as a present. You’ll love it, Molly assured her, it’s about a monster.

The last time Molly was seen, her colleagues watched her get into her car in the parking lot of the Owen Hill Salvation Army food pantry where she volunteered every Wednesday night after work. She drove off into the dark woods and never showed up at school the next day. Five days after Molly disappeared, the police found her empty car submerged in Deer Lake. No body, no leads.

The first piece of evidence to appear was the letter, posted on Molly Barts’ Facebook page by a fake account bearing the name John Doe. Dear Owen Hill residents, the letter read, you should keep reading if you want to find Molly. The letter detailed how John Doe waited in the backseat of Molly’s car until she drove well into the woods, after which he jumped up and put a gun to her head. She’s still with me, John Doe claimed, but maybe I will give her back someday.

The letter was quickly deleted for violating Facebook’s terms of service but by then it had been copied and shared so many times that it became impossible to scrub it from the internet permanently. It disappeared for a while only to pop up again somewhere else, patiently waiting for its many eager voyeurs on hard drives across the world. Sara has the letter saved on her computer. It is in a hidden folder named Molly.

Todd JenkinsI talked to Officer Petersson and he said that the letter is DEFINATELY still being investigated as evidense, hope we find Molly soonJohnny SpellbullshitTodd Jenkins???Sandy Fontaine@Johnny Spells arseholeMilo NovikovFAKE NEWSSusanna BartonFor God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life (John 3:16)✝️Winona AlyssaShe was JewishGabriel Mireyawas?????Ramsay DeepakShe’s definitely deadGabriel MireyaWhy would John Doe say he’s going to give her back then?26 repliesAlly RudowskiIf you take the first letter of every sentence you get dymetanebaraces or basement daycare. Has anyone checked?Laura HermannWoooooaaaaaaah!!Melissa AuffaOMG @Sonya Serrino have you seen this?Paolo Milja@Owen Hill Police DepartmentJohn Irocould also be mean-eyed cat bars?Markus Lira'bye East-Camden, AR'Zahara AnsaHas someone checked Arizona12 repliesBethany BroodsI work for the FBI as a profiler and I can tell this was written by a man in his late thirties who is from the pacific northwest. He probably has issues with authority and hates his mom and expresses his hatred towards women through violent tendencies, very typical.Grant AmadoBethany you work at StarbucksIgnatius DinoYou can tell from the keystrokes that this was written on a Logitech K480 Multi Device Bluetooth Keyboard.Johnny SpellwthJulian Nyámbura@Lucy this is the case I was talking aboutLucy VeraomgggggLydia SantiagoTo me it sounds like the letter was written by a woman. Probably early thirties, lives alone and has some personal connection to Molly Barts. I pray that Molly is found soon <3.Jayden Rossomg jane doeJonathan LieslSounds hotEmma KrügerWhat is happening to this world things arent how they used to be I wish we could go back bless you Molly I hope you are foundView 256 more comments

The Owen Hill Police Department investigated the letter but ultimately deemed it a hoax. You shouldn’t believe everything you read on the internet, Police Chief Raymond Barrows said in an official statement to the press. In fact, I recommend you disregard most of it.

Sara’s reading is interrupted by a sudden unignorable hunger. As she goes to pick up a banana from a glass bowl on her stainless steel counter, she accidentally presses too hard into an unseen darkened spot on the underside of the peel, her middle finger sinking deep into the softened brown meat. She shivers at the unexpected sensation. The punctured skin of the banana releases the smell of rot: dull and sweet, cloying even, but at the same time attractive and earthy like wet moss.

It reminds her of the coniferous forest surrounding her hometown Owen Hill and makes her feel instantly nostalgic the way strong smells do. Sara reminisces about the last time she was there, about the watery beams of moonlight seeping through the canopy and the damp soil stuck under her fingernails for days after.

She washes her hands thoroughly twice. Then she opens the fridge. Staring at the scarcely stocked shelves, Sara becomes increasingly aware of an electronic beeping that lowers down into her concentrated perception, the way an alarm clock’s blare winds its way into a dream disguised as a car horn. It’s the fridge, reminding her that she is wasting precious energy, which reminds her that she is wasting precious time. Quickly, she rams the door to the refrigerator shut. Something clatter inside but she pays it no mind.

She returns to her laptop and continually refreshes the page with one hand, digging the other into a box of Cheez-Its. She waits for the comments to guess at some small part of the truth. When a plausible theory pops up, she hits like or upvotes it. She enjoys the commenters, enjoys that they are working so hard. She feels part of a community, one that she is deeply integrated in and simultaneously lords over, like a clergyman.

About a week after the letter was published, the photos appeared. They first showed up on the subreddit r/sleuths, posted by user johndoe. There were three crisp photos of belongings Molly Barts had with her on the night she vanished, photographed from above and overexposed against the backdrop of a grey poured concrete floor. Among them were a red knitted scarf, a pair of tortoise shell prescription glasses and a matching rose quartz necklace and earring set.

croissharkis this real???emmakrügermay god bless you molly I am praying for youcaptainsleuth2507I recognize that jewelry she wore it all the time! monsteramonsterThe scarf is definitely hers too, she was wearing it the last time I saw her46 more repliesalschertimDoes anyone else see that stain on the upper right corner of the scarf?Empress_ButterboatLooks like bloodLev1athan1adamn it doesBetty_ProctorForensic pathologist here. Based on the coloration I could definitely conclude that that is dried blood. Not necessarily human though.alfalfamanholy shit13 more repliesmichaeltherouterUnsettling…rueshay69Does it? Could just be a random dark stain imo5 more repliescaptainsleuth2507I’m pretty sure these photos are real, what does that say about the letter?Owen Hill Police DepartmentIf you have any information regarding any of these items or John Doe’s letter, please contact us at (206)625-5013.28 more repliesgoodenough2022The photos look well-lit, like he used industrial lighting almostlonelycitygirlThey’re good quality too.2 more repliesOwen Hill Police DepartmentIf you have any information regarding any of these items, please contact us at (206)625-5013.lucianoitalianoDamn the OHPD is on Reddit now?croissharkDesperate times…

The Owen Hill Police Department now actively engages with the comment section in order to further their investigation. Sara feels a bit unsettled by this. She has a thorough grasp of the people who contribute to the comments, knows which users frequent which platform, knows which theories they believe to hold weight and which they don’t. It never really crossed her mind that there is someone else observing the comment section imperceptibly, from above, the way she is.

She downs the last bit of her coffee, long gone cold, then sets her cup down quietly on the checkered formica and tears her gaze away from the laptop screen to give her eyes a little bit of rest from the artificial light. A dull yellow haze from the rising winter sun illuminates her windowsill, guiding her attention to a thin layer of dust that is gathered there. The light brings every little speck of unevenness into sharp focus. It desperately makes her want to clean, but there is no time. She needs to go to the offce.

She goes over the photos in her head, trying to cement in her mind what the items look like down to the tiniest details. The red scarf, she swipes her card at the entrance to the subway. The glasses, she descends the staircase into the warm underground. The jewelry, she waits as the train rackets and screeches to a halt in front of her. She repeatedly presses the button on the door until it opens.

Stand clear of the closing doors, please. The subway tunnels don’t have cellphone reception, making it impossible to refresh the comments. Sara quickly takes a stick of gum out of her bag and starts chewing it in syncopated rhythm with her quickening heartbeat.

It’s still dark when she exits the subway station and makes her way to a desolate cluster of high rise office buildings downtown. The lights in the offices are off, the shiny exoskeletons of the towers only illuminated from the outside by the flood lights from surrounding construction sites.

On her way to the cleaning staff entrance of one of the towers, Sara passes a construction zone with an enormous black pit in the middle of it. It is so deep that the broad-beamed high-intensity artificial lights don’t reach the bottom. If I threw my phone into the pit, Sara thinks, it would probably never be found. Maybe it would keep falling into the core of the earth until it ceased to exist. Or until it reached Hell. They would just pour layer after layer of concrete over it, bury it in steel foundation. Then the comments would disappear just like Molly did.

Why do they keep the lights on all night these days, Sara wonders, the biting cold wind whipping her towards the office building. What a waste.

Once inside, she sets up her laptop on an empty desk. It’s cold inside the tower. The heating hasn’t been turned on yet, but at least there is no wind. Sara keeps her long black puffer coat on, slides into an ergonomic desk chair, and turns on the computer.

The last piece of evidence to be uploaded was the video. Now that really caught people’s attention. The video is four minutes and thirty-five seconds long and Sara has watched it at least a hundred times. It is titled What happened to Molly Barts and was uploaded to Youtube by user John Doe. Sara presses play and a crackling rendition of Country Death Song by the Violent Femmes starts playing, its riffs bouncing off the concrete walls and floors of the office space. It is the sinister backing track to a cacophony of mostly unintelligible sounds.

Manny2567Has the Owen Hill police seen this??182 repliesOwen Hill Police DepartmentIf you have any information regarding any of this footage, please contact us at (206)625-5013.562 repliesbelladonnaaaHoly shit this is horrifying201 replies김하람나무주걱이 필수 이군요..24 repliesBit_coin_kingSeriously, if you’re reading this, please don’t watch this92 repliesJasonUndercoverAt 02:47 it looks like you can discern a piece of furnite in the background, right?67 repliesCloudywithachanceofmemy brother dared me to watch this and now I keep having nigtmares :( any advise?58 repliess e r e n a 5 2Has anyone tried to figure out what kind of radio that is or what that weird rhythmic sound is at 03:48?226 repliesEldritch_MikePlease please please don’t watch this!!!1!32 repliesEarn Money OnlineHave you ever wanted to work from home or just top up your earnings ? This tried and tested system teaches you how you can make a small fortune from the comfort of your own home https://bit.ly/-Work-from-Home1 replydaddylonglegsThe buzzing at 03:39 sounds exactly like my makita 5007MG287 repliesEmma KrügerPraying for you Moly3 repliesking_of_youtube01:48 gives me goosebumps163 replies

The Youtube video is often removed for violating community guidelines, but Sara never has to search long to find it again. It pops up quickly and suddenly in many other digital spaces. The video, along with the letter and the photo set, has been copied and shared, deleted and reuploaded so many times that it has become a simulacrum. After how many copies does a thing cease to be its original, Sara wonders.

She leans back in her chair and sighs, frustrated at the comment section’s lack of progress and fatigued with the fact that these key pieces of evidence will just continue to circulate to be commented upon, seemingly to no end or goal. They rise up or down message threads, receive upvotes and likes, yet they remain contained behind a barrier of blinking LCD, far away from the real world.

Sara thinks back to the last time she visited Owen Hill. She ran into Molly at the grocery store. They made polite small talk and Sara thanked her again for giving her that book all those years ago. Molly could not hide her befuddlement very well, and it slowly dawned on Sara that Molly did not remember. You know? Sara said. The one about the monster? Molly looked puzzled. You were in my class? She asked.

Sara’s phone pings, instantly distracting her from this unpleasant recollection. A Google Alert appears in the banner notifications. It is a news item from the Owen Hill Gazette, a local newspaper from her hometown. The lower vertebrae of her spine tingle. She wonders for a moment if her phone heard her exasperated sigh and chose to answer with this update on Molly’s case to make her feel better.

There is a lull in the wind that moments earlier made the windows of the office space rattle like a shaken cage. Sara’s shadow is long and thin now as the floodlights outside stretch it out over the concrete floor, making it look worn and emaciated. It’s completely silent for a moment as Sara reads the headline, growing increasingly aware that this is the type of silence that comes before a storm.

Just as she finishes reading the article, the windows of the office space rattle violently as the wind whips around the empty high-rise. The muscles in Sara’s shoulders tense up and her heartbeat quickens to a nervous flutter. They’re coming, she says out loud to the emptiness stretching out before her. A flush of relief. Then she reads the comments.