Friends Vanished on a Mountain Trip - 2 Years Later Police Found Something Far More Disturbing…

On October 15th, 2015, 11 college friends drove up Black Ridge Mountain for what should have been a perfect weekend camping trip to celebrate their last fall break together.

They posted one final photo at 9:47 p.m.

All of them laughing around a campfire, faces glowing in the orange light, arms wrapped around each other like they’d live forever.

By Monday morning, when none of them showed up for classes, their families started calling.

Their cars were found at the trail head.

Their campsite was discovered three miles up the mountain, tents still standing, sleeping bags laid out, food halfeaten on plastic plates.

But the 11 friends were gone, vanished into the mountain air like smoke.

For 2 years, their faces stared out from missing posters stapled to every tree along the mountain road.

11 young people frozen in time waiting to come home.

Then in October 2017, a hiker’s dog started digging in a ravine 5 miles from the original campsite and uncovered something that made seasoned investigators vomit.

What police found in that ravine wasn’t just evidence of what happened to the missing friends.

It was proof that someone had been hunting young people in those mountains for years.

and the 11 friends had stumbled into something far more terrifying than getting lost in the woods.

Danny Caldwell hadn’t slept properly in 731 days.

2 years and one day since Sarah and her friends vanished on Black Ridge Mountain.

Two years of jumping every time his phone rang, hoping it would be news.

two years of driving up that mountain road every weekend, retracing their route, searching for something, anything the investigators might have missed.

He sat at his kitchen table at 5:47 a.m.

staring at the same photo he’d looked at every morning since October 17th, 2015.

The last one posted to Sarah’s Instagram.

11 college kids around a campfire, their faces glowing orange in the darkness, arms slung around each other’s shoulders.

Sarah was in the middle, her blonde hair in a messy bun, head thrown back mid laugh.

The time stamp haunted him.

9:47 p.m.

3 hours later, according to the phone records, all 11 phones had stopped transmitting signals.

just stopped like they’d all been switched off at exactly the same moment.

Danny’s phone buzzed on the table, making him flinch.

Unknown number, Kentucky area code.

His heart hammered as he answered.

Mr.

Caldwell, this is Detective Ruth Callaway with the state police.

We need you to come to the Black Ridge Mountain Ranger Station immediately.

His coffee mug slipped from his hand, shattering on the lenolium floor.

Did you find them, Mr.

Caldwell? Dot dot dot.

Her voice was careful, professional, but Dany heard something underneath it.

Something that made his stomach clench.

We’ve found evidence.

I can’t discuss it over the phone, but you need to come now.

And Danny, bring a recent photo of Sarah, one where we can clearly see any identifying marks, scars, tattoos, anything unique.

The drive to Black Ridge took 90 minutes on a good day.

Dany made it in ‘ 65.

His 2004 Honda Civic screaming around the mountain curves he’d memorized over two years of searching.

The October morning was crisp and clear, mist clinging to the valleys below, the trees exploding in reds and golds just like they had been that weekend.

The Ranger Station parking lot was chaos.

state police cruisers, FBI vehicles, a coroner’s van, and three ambulances.

Danyy’s legs went weak.

Ambulances meant survivors.

But the coroner’s van.

Detective Callaway met him at the perimeter tape, a woman in her 50s with gray stret.

She guided him away from the crowd of reporters already gathering into a small office that smelled of burnt coffee and old wood.

Sit down, Mr.

Caldwell.

Just tell me.

She pulled out a tablet, swiped to a photo.

Yesterday afternoon, a hiker’s dog uncovered human remains in a ravine about 5 miles from where your sister’s group was camping.

We’ve been excavating since 3:00 a.m.

Danny stared at the aerial photo of the ravine.

Orange evidence markers dotted the ground like fallen leaves.

So many markers.

How many? We’ve found remains from at least nine individuals so far.

Callaway’s voice was steady, but her knuckles were white where she gripped the tablet.

Based on clothing and personal effects, we believe they’re from your sister’s group.

Nine.

The word came out like a punch.

There were 11 of them.

I know.

She swiped to another photo, a mudcaked wallet.

We’ve identified Brandon Cole from his driver’s license and she hesitated then showed him a water damaged student ID.

Nicole Hris.

Danyy’s hands shook as he touched the screen, zooming in on Nicole’s photo.

She’d been Sarah’s roommate, her best friend since freshman year.

They’d planned to backpack through Europe after graduation.

What about Sarah? We haven’t found her or Kevin Hartley.

Their remains aren’t in the ravine.

Hope and dread twisted in his chest.

So they could be.

Mr.

Caldwell, I need to show you something else.

Callaway pulled out an evidence bag containing a small notebook.

The pages warped and stained.

This was in Brandon Cole’s jacket pocket.

It’s water damaged, but our texts were able to recover some of the writing.

She opened it to a marked page.

Dany recognized Brandon’s handwriting immediately.

He’d been the organized one, the one who always took notes, made lists, planned every detail of their trips.

The entry was dated October 16th, 2015, the day after they had arrived.

Day two, something’s wrong.

Found old campsite one mile north.

Weird stuff.

Backpacks from different years.

Found ID from 2009.

Maria Santos, USC.

She went missing.

Remembered the news story.

There are more camps, more old gear.

How many? The next entry was shorter, more frantic.

Kevin went to check the other sites.

Been 3 hours.

Should have taken 30 minutes.

Girls want to leave.

Trevor and Matt say we’re overreacting.

Keep hearing things.

Someone’s watching us.

Danny turned the page.

Brandon’s usually neat handwriting had devolved into desperate scrolls.

“They’re not park rangers.” That was the last entry.

“We ran the name Maria Santos,” Callaway said quietly.

USC student went missing on Black Ridge Mountain in October 2009.

She and four friends never found.

Dy’s mind raced.

There were others.

We’ve been going through missing persons reports for the past 20 years.

At least 37 people have vanished on or around Black Ridge Mountain.

Always in groups, always in October.

October, Danny repeated the word tasting like ash.

We think someone’s been using the mountain as a hunting ground, targeting camping groups during peak season when the trails are busy enough that a few missing people might not be noticed immediately.

Danny stood up so fast his chair fell backward.

And you’re just figuring this out now? Two years later.

The original investigation treated it as a missing person’s case.

Group got lost.

Possible animal attack exposure.

It happens.

But this, she gestured to the notebook.

This changes everything.

You said you found nine bodies.

Where are Sarah and Kevin? Callaway was quiet for a long moment.

Then she pulled up another photo on her tablet.

It was a piece of fabric, torn and muddy, caught on a tree branch.

We found this 2 m from the ravine heading down the north face of the mountain.

It matches the description of the jacket Sarah was wearing.

Dany grabbed the tablet, zooming in.

It was Sarah’s jacket, the purple Northace she’d bought specifically for the trip.

But something was wrong with the photo’s perspective.

This was heading down the mountain away from where you found the others.

Yes.

And Danny dot dot dot.

Callaway pulled up one more image.

A footprint preserved in dried mud with a measurement marker beside it.

This was found near the fabric.

It’s fresh, maybe 2 weeks old.

Size seven women’s hiking boot.

Sarah wore a size seven.

Danny’s knees buckled.

He caught himself on the desk, his mind struggling to process what Callaway was implying.

You think she’s alive? I think someone survived the initial attack based on the evidence patterns, the wear on the recovered items, and the distribution of the remains.

Callaway chose her words carefully.

We believe at least one member of your sister’s group may have survived the initial incident.

Then where has she been for two years? Before a Callaway could answer, her radio crackled to life.

Detective, you need to see this.

Sector 7 immediately.

The urgency in the voice made them both move.

They rushed out of the office, Callaway leading the way to a police ATV.

They drove up a narrow trail Danny had searched at least a dozen times, past the yellow tape marking the original campsite, deeper into the woods where the trees pressed close and the sunlight barely penetrated.

A cluster of investigators stood around something Dany couldn’t see.

They parted as Callaway approached and Dany saw what had made veteran police officers look sick.

It was a tree, ancient, massive, its trunk probably 6 ft in diameter.

But that wasn’t what made Danyy’s blood freeze.

The tree was covered in Polaroid photographs.

Dozens of them, maybe hundreds, protected from the weather by sheets of clear plastic tacked to the bark.

They started about 8 ft up and spiraled around the trunk going up as far as Dany could see.

Each photo showed a group of young people camping, hiking, sitting around fires, laughing, living.

And in the corner of each photo, written in neat handwriting, were dates.

October 2003, October 2005, October 2007.

Danny’s eyes tracked up the spiral until he found what he was looking for and desperately hoping not to see.

October 2015, 11 faces around a campfire.

But this wasn’t the Instagram photo.

This was taken from a distance from somewhere in the darkness beyond the fire’s light.

The angle suggested the photographer had been above them, possibly in a tree.

Someone had been watching them that night, documenting them, hunting them.

Dany stared at the photograph of his sister’s group until his vision blurred.

The image was perfectly centered, professionally composed despite being taken in darkness.

Whoever shot this had experience, patience, and the right equipment for night photography.

There’s more, Detective Callaway said quietly, leading him around to the other side of the massive tree.

The photos on this side were different.

Aftermath shots, groups in distress, people running, faces twisted in terror.

And at the very bottom, protected by a metal box bolted to the trunk, was a leather journal.

A crime scene tech was photographing each page before carefully turning to the next.

Dany caught glimpses of neat handwriting, detailed entries, maps with X marks.

“It’s a record,” the tech said, his voice muffled by his mask.

“Going back to 1999.

Every group, every hunt, every outcome.” Dy’s phone vibrated in his pocket.

Unknown number.

He almost ignored it, but something made him answer.

Hello.

Silence, then breathing, then a voice that made his knees buckle.

Danny, it was Sarah.

Weak, raspy, but unmistakably his sister.

Sarah.

Oh my god.

Where are you? Are you okay? We’re on the mountain.

We found Don’t come looking for me.

Her voice was flat, mechanical, like she was reading from a script.

Please, Danny, just go home.

Forget about this.

Sarah, what are you talking about? Where are you? I’m safe.

Kevin’s safe, but only if you stop.

Only if everyone stops looking.

Danny grabbed Callaway’s arm, mouththing, it’s her.

While fumbling to put the phone on speaker.

Sarah, listen to me.

We found the others.

We know what happened.

Just tell me where you are and we’ll come get you.

A different voice came on the line.

Male, older, calm, and controlled.

Mr.

Caldwell, your sister is correct.

She and Mr.

Hartley are alive and relatively unharmed.

They will remain so as long as you and the authorities cease your investigation immediately.

Who is this? Someone who has survived in these mountains for 23 years by being very careful.

Your sister’s group stumbled into something they shouldn’t have.

Nine of them paid the price for their curiosity.

Two were salvageable.

Danny’s rage boiled over.

“You murdered nine people.

I harvested them.” The voice remained eerily calm.

Just as I’ve harvested dozens of others who thought they could come to my mountain, my territory without consequence.

But your sister, she understood.

She adapted.

She and Kevin have been quite helpful these past two years.

You’re lying.

October 30th, 2016.

You came to the mountain alone, searched the Cedar Creek Trail for 6 hours.

You sat on a fallen log near the waterfall, and cried for 13 minutes.

You left a missing poster on the trail marker, even though they’d all been removed by park services.

Sarah watched you the entire time.

Danny’s blood turned to ice.

He remembered that day.

He’d felt like someone was watching him, but he’d chock it up to paranoia.

She wanted to call out to you, the voice continued.

But she knew what would happen if she did.

She’s learned the rules.

Stay quiet.

Stay useful.

Stay alive.

What do you want? I want what I’ve always wanted.

To be left alone.

The police will find enough evidence in that ravine to close their case.

Nine bodies, a tragic accident, perhaps an animal attack.

The families will have closure.

And in return, Sarah and Kevin continue their education.

Education.

Someone has to maintain the hunting grounds after I’m gone.

Your sister shows remarkable promise.

She’s developed quite the eye for photography.

Danyy’s gaze snap back to the polaroids on the tree.

The recent ones.

The thought that Sarah might have taken some of them made him physically ill.

Let me talk to her again.

No, this is your only communication.

Leave the mountain.

Stop searching or I’ll add two more photos to my collection.

Close-ups this time.

The line went dead.

Dany immediately tried calling back, but the number was already disconnected.

He turned to Callaway, who was barking orders into her radio.

We need triangulation on that call now.

Get the tech team.

It was a satellite phone, one of the techs said, looking at his equipment.

Bounced through at least three proxies.

We’ve got nothing.

Dany slammed his fist against the tree, not caring that it split his knuckles open.

She’s alive.

She’s up there somewhere, and he’s making her Jesus Christ, what has he done to her? Callaway guided him away from the tree, from the horrified investigators, from the photos that would haunt him forever.

Danny, we need to think about this carefully.

If he’s telling the truth, if you heard him, he knew exactly where I was last year.

Exactly what I did.

Sarah was watching me and I didn’t even know.

His voice cracked.

My sister’s been alive this whole time, 2 years, and she never she couldn’t.

They sat on a fallen log while a medic cleaned and bandaged Dy’s hand.

Around them, the investigation continued.

More photos were being cataloged.

The journal was being processed.

Somewhere in the ravine below, forensic teams were still extracting the remains of nine young people who just wanted to go camping.

“We can’t stop the investigation,” Callaway said.

Finally, “Nine people are dead.

Their families deserve answers.” “And what about Sarah? What about Kevin? We’ll find them.

This guy just made a mistake.

He made contact.

That gives us something to work with.

She pulled out her phone, showing Dany a topographical map of Black Ridge Mountain.

Based on the 2-year timeline and what he said about territory, he has to have a permanent structure up here somewhere off the marked trails, but with access to power for those photo developments, supplies, possibly internet for that satellite phone.

Dany studied the map, his mind racing.

He said, “My mountain like he owns it.” We checked.

Most of Black Ridge is National Forest, but there are some private holdings from before the park was established.

Old mining claims a few grandfathered properties.

How many? Seven properties totaling about 300 acres scattered across the North Face.

She zoomed in on the map.

But here’s the interesting part.

One of them has been paying property taxes regularly for the past 40 years.

Owner listed as V.

Aldridge.

Victor Aldridge.

Dany read from her screen.

Who is he? According to the records, he inherited the land from his father in 1976.

47 acres including an old mining operation.

But here’s the thing.

There’s no record of Victor Aldridge anywhere else.

No driver’s license, no social security number, no birth certificate, a fake name, or someone who’s been very careful about staying off the grid.

Callaway pulled up another document.

The property taxes are paid in cash every year.

Always on time, always exact change, delivered by mail with no return address.

A commotion near the photo tree drew their attention.

One of the investigators was calling Callaway over, his face pale.

They’d found something behind the metal box that held the journal.

It was a Polaroid camera, modern, expensive, with a telephoto lens attachment.

And stuck to it was a post-it note with today’s date and a single line.

She’s getting better at this.

Attached to the note was a fresh Polaroid.

It showed Dany and Callaway sitting on the log just minutes ago, taken from somewhere above them, somewhere in the canopy.

Dany spun around, scanning the trees, but saw nothing.

He’s here right now, watching us.

Callaway’s hand moved to her weapon, but she didn’t draw it.

Everyone stay calm.

Maintain positions.

She spoke into her radio quietly, professionally, but Dany could see the tension in her shoulders.

Another text came through on Danyy’s phone.

This time it was a photo attachment.

Sarah and Kevin standing in what looked like a cave or mineshaft.

They were thin but alive, dressed in worn camping clothes.

Sarah’s hair was longer, unckempt.

Kevin had a beard, but what made Danyy’s stomach turn was their expressions.

They weren’t scared.

They weren’t pleading for help.

They were smiling.

And Sarah was holding a camera.

Dany showed the photo to Callaway, his hands trembling.

Sarah’s smile wasn’t forced or fearful.

It looked genuine, relaxed, like she was posing for a family photo.

Kevin had his arm around her shoulders, casual and comfortable.

Behind them, the cave walls were lined with what looked like supplies, canned goods, water bottles, camping equipment.

They don’t look like prisoners, Callaway said quietly.

Stockholm syndrome, Dany insisted.

It’s been 2 years.

He’s had two years to break them down, make them dependent on him.

But even as he said it, doubt crept in.

Sarah’s eyes in the photo were clear, alert.

She’d lost weight, but didn’t look malnourished.

Her clothes were worn, but clean, and that camera in her hands, it looked expensive, well-maintained.

Another text came through.

Ask yourself why only two survived.

Before Dany could respond, his phone rang.

Sarah again.

Put it on speaker.

Callaway whispered, gesturing for the tech team to start recording.

Sarah, I’m sorry about earlier.

Her voice was stronger now, more like the sister he remembered.

He was listening.

I had to say what he wanted.

Are you alone now? for a few minutes.

Danny, you need to understand something.

That night, October 15th, we found things.

Evidence of what had been happening up here.

Brandon wanted to leave immediately, go to the police, but Trevor and Matt, they wanted to explore more, document everything.

They thought we’d stumbled onto some serial killer’s dumping ground.

Her voice caught.

Dany could hear her taking deep breaths.

We split up.

Stupid, I know.

Brandon took Nicole, Jessica, and Khloe back toward the main trail to get cell service.

Trevor, and Matt went to investigate another campsite we’d found.

Ashley, Jason, and Ryan stayed at our camp.

Kevin and I, we went looking for water.

That’s when we heard the screaming.

Danny closed his eyes, imagining it.

11 friends scattered across the dark mountain, separated, vulnerable.

It happened so fast.

By the time Kevin and I got back to camp, Ashley and Jason were gone.

Ryan was crawling toward the fire, his leg twisted wrong, crying.

Then this man stepped out of the shadows.

Older, maybe 60s, carrying an old hunting rifle.

He looked at Ryan, then at us, and he said the strangest thing.

“What?” he said.

“Which one of you takes photographs?” Dy’s eyes snapped to the polaroids covering the tree.

What did you say? I was too terrified to speak, but Kevin, God, Danny, Kevin saved my life.

He pointed at me and said, “She does.

She’s a photography major.

She’s really good.” And it was true.

You know, I’ve been taking pictures since high school.

Had my camera with me on the trip.

Sarah, what happened to the others? A long pause.

When she spoke again, her voice was barely a whisper.

He made us choose what he said.

He only needed two.

Two to learn, two to carry on.

The rest were surplus.

He made Kevin and me choose who would live.

Danny’s stomach heaved.

No, you wouldn’t.

We refused.

Of course, we refused.

But then he shot Ryan right there while we watched.

And he started walking toward where Brandon’s group had gone.

He knew exactly where they were, had been tracking them.

He gave us 10 seconds to decide or he’d kill everyone.

Callaway was writing frantically, noting everything around them.

Other investigators had stopped working, listening to Sarah’s confession echo through the mountains.

I chose Kevin, Sarah continued, her voice breaking.

And Kevin chose me, the others.

He marched them to the ravine, made us watch.

said, “If we looked away, if we ran, he’d hunt us down like the others he’d hunted over the years.” Sarah, Jesus Christ.

But here’s what you need to understand, Danny.

After After it was over, he showed us something.

A whole network of caves connected to the old Black Ridge Mine.

There are people living up here, not just him.

Others who have survived previous hunts.

Some have been here for years.

Danny and Callaway exchanged shocked looks.

How many others? I don’t know exactly.

They come and go.

Some he releases after they’ve learned enough.

Some choose to stay.

He calls it the collection.

People he saved from the weakness of modern society.

Taught to survive, to hunt, to appreciate the mountain.

Sarah, that’s insane.

He’s a serial killer.

Is he? Or is he something else? Danny, I’ve seen the photos going back decades, the journal entries.

He doesn’t kill everyone.

He selects.

He preserves.

The ones who show promise, who demonstrate skills, who can adapt, they get a choice.

A choice.

He murdered nine people.

Nine people who would have reported him, who would have brought police, reporters, developers.

Nine people who would have destroyed what he’s built up here.

But Kevin and I, we understood.

We adapted.

Dany heard something in her voice that terrified him more than anything else.

Pride.

You need to get out of there.

Both of you.

Tell me where you are.

And I am out, Danny.

The words hit him like ice water.

What? I leave the mountain all the time now.

I was in town last week.

Walked right past you at the grocery store.

You didn’t even recognize me.

Danny’s mind reeled, trying to remember everyone he’d passed at the store.

It wasn’t possible.

He would have known his own sister.

You’re lying.

Aisle 7.

You were buying those protein bars you like.

I was 3 ft away wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses.

Victor was right.

People see what they expect to see, and nobody expects to see the dead.

Prove it.

You have a new girlfriend.

Rebecca works at the bank.

You’ve been dating for 3 months.

You haven’t told her about me yet because you don’t want to scare her off with your complicated family situation.

Danny’s legs gave out.

He sat hard on the ground, the phone shaking in his hand.

Only a handful of people knew about Rebecca.

Sarah couldn’t know unless you’ve been watching me.

We all watch.

That’s what we do.

We document.

We preserve.

We protect the mountain and its secrets.

There was a pause.

Then Sarah’s voice softened.

Dany, I know this is hard to understand, but I’m okay.

I’m more than okay.

I’m free in a way I never was before.

No student loans, no job interviews, no pressure to be something I’m not.

Up here, I’m learning things, real things.

How to track, how to hunt, how to survive, how to kill, how to select.

There’s a difference.

Sarah, please.

The investigators are going to find more than they bargained for in those caves.

Bodies from years ago, but also supplies, equipment, proof that people have been living here successfully for decades.

They’re going to realize this is bigger than one man.

And when they do, they’re going to have to make a choice.

What kind of choice? Storm the caves and risk killing the victims they’re supposed to be saving or negotiate? Because, Danny, we’re not all victims anymore.

Some of us have become something else.

The line went dead.

Callaway immediately called for a search team to investigate the old Black Ridge mine.

But Dany could see the conflict in her eyes.

If Sarah was telling the truth, they weren’t dealing with a simple hostage situation.

They were dealing with a cult, a community, a decades old system of predator and prey where the lines had become blurred.

She’s been brainwashed, Dany said, but the words felt hollow.

Maybe, Callaway replied, or maybe she’s trying to tell us something.

That conversation, she knew we were recording.

She gave us locations, numbers, details.

Either she’s completely under his control or or she’s playing a longer game than we realize.

Dy’s phone buzzed with another photo.

This one showed the entrance to a minehaft partially hidden by overgrowth.

But what made his blood run cold was the figure standing beside it.

It was Sarah holding a sign.

Come alone or don’t come at all.

You have 24 hours to decide.

She wasn’t smiling anymore.

Her expression was serious, urgent, and in her other hand, barely visible, she held something that might have been a knife, or might have been a key.

Dany stared at the photo for a full minute, zooming in on Sarah’s hand.

It was definitely a key, old-fashioned brass, the kind that might open a padlock or an old door.

She was holding it at an angle that made it visible to the camera, but would look natural to anyone standing near her.

She’s trying to tell us something,” he said, showing Callaway the detail.

The detective studied it, then called over one of her tech specialists.

“Can you enhance this section?” While they worked on the image, Danyy’s mind raced.

Sarah had been free to leave the mountain.

She’d been in town close enough to touch him and hadn’t made contact.

Either she was completely broken or she was trapped in some other way.

Detective.

An investigator jogged over from the photo tree.

We found something else hidden in the journal.

There’s a section written in different handwriting.

Looks like someone added pages recently.

They returned to the tree where the journal was being processed.

The tech had separated several pages that were clearly newer than the rest.

The paper less yellowed, the ink darker.

The handwriting was feminine.

Neat.

Sarah’s October 1st, 2017.

He makes us write our observations.

Says documentation is as important as the hunt itself.

I’ve been here 23 months.

Kevin stopped counting after the first year.

There are 17 of us total.

Five from the 2009 group, three from 2011, two from 2013, four from 2014, Kevin and me from 2015, and three from last year, 2016.

We didn’t know about last year’s hunt until after he kept us separated.

The rules are simple.

Learn the craft.

Prove your worth.

Earn your freedom.

Some have earned it.

Marie from the 2009 group left last Christmas.

She sends letters.

has a job in Denver now.

Victor says she’s one of his greatest successes.

Dany felt sick.

Marie Santos, the girl whose ID Brandon found.

Callaway was already on her phone calling the FBI.

I need a location on Marie Santos.

Last known address, Denver, Colorado.

Possible victim turned accomplice in multiple homicides.

The journal entries continued.

October 5th, 2017.

Victor is getting older.

He talks about succession, about who will inherit the mountain.

He watches us all, evaluating.

Kevin thinks we’re being tested.

I know we are.

The others don’t know Victor is sick.

Lung cancer, probably from years of smoking.

He hides it well, but I see the blood when he coughs.

He’s got maybe 6 months, maybe less.

He needs to choose someone before he dies.

Someone to continue the tradition.

someone who understands the importance of the selection process.

My god, Callaway breathed.

He’s training his replacement.

The next entry was dated just 3 days ago, October 12th, 2017.

It’s almost time for this year’s hunt.

Victor has chosen the group, college kids from Portland, planning to camp near Crystal Lake.

12 of them.

Too many, he says, will need to cultivore at most.

But I’ve been thinking, what if there was another way? What if instead of selecting from victims, we selected a different kind of survivor? Dany won’t understand at first, but he’s strong.

Stronger than he knows.

And he’s been hunting, too, in his way.

Hunting for me, hunting for truth.

He just needs the right motivation.

She’s planning something, Dany said, his voice tight.

This isn’t Stockholm syndrome.

She’s planning something.

The final entry was from yesterday, October 14th, 2017.

Tomorrow is the anniversary.

Victor wants to make it special.

He’s planned an elaborate hunt for the Portland group, but I’ve convinced him to wait.

Told him the police presence would make it too risky.