Little Anne Patterson had been missing for three days now and things were looking grim.
The family lived on the edge of an old forest, made famous by its ability to cause even the most seasoned hiker to lose their way. There was something labyrinthian about that woodland.
Anne was told never to go out into the forest, but curiosity often proved stronger than her better judgment. She had ventured into the wood on more than one occasion, but in each of these instances, her father was able to get a hold of her before she got too far.
This time was different.
A search party had been assembled, combing the Patterson’s vast property.
In the days since her disappearance, the group had trudged through 10 square miles of wilderness. There was no sign of her until they came across one of her mittens. The second was found 50 feet to the west of the first.
So they continued west through the densest section of forest yet and eventually came to a clearing with an ancient well in the center.
A quiet fell among the party as they realized what had likely happened here.
After a few minutes of tense stasis, the lead detective on the investigation stepped forward to take a look down the well.
He put his hands on the cold, moldy brick that made up the well’s outer rim and peered over into the abyss.
He could see nothing.
“Anne?” he yelled down, hoping he would hear her voice in response. But the only reply was his own echo.
He turned around and faced Anne’s father, Greg.
“I yelled down the well to see if she’d reply, but there was no Anne, sir.”
