The traitors, p.2
The Traitors, page 2
So, we’re finally going to discuss this. Good.
Jan was referring to a case we covered back in August. It was the end of summer, sticky hot, and miserable. And reading about the Stevens case made my blood feel like it was boiling, literally. Kacey Stevens was a small-town girl from a no-name town with a poor, shitty family. Even before she went missing, her life was in the pits. Some drug peddling, some prostitution, but Kacey was finally getting her life on track, working on her GED and she’d even hooked her first real boyfriend…a “nice boy”, as they liked to call boys like him in the papers. A boy with a toothpaste smile and a good family. Even though they found some signs of blood and a struggle in the boyfriend’s car, after a road trip, there was never enough to charge him with kidnapping, much less murder. Furthermore, the searches for Kacey were short and unsuccessful, and her body was never found.
Kacey’s case wasn’t so dissimilar from others we’d worked on in the past. But what struck me so deeply about it was the fact that it got so little coverage in the news. Kacey was described by some as a “homely-looking” girl, and she was quite a bit overweight. I saw cases of pretty girls all over the news every day; some of those girls were poor no-names like Kacey, but because they were eye-catching with their looks, those cases went viral and the media pushed local authorities to search better, fight harder for justice…
Nobody was fighting for Kacey, because her face simply wasn’t memorable enough by today’s standards. Girls like Kacey don’t light up rooms when they walk inside them. And neither do girls like me.
So, maybe that’s why the Stevens hit me so hard. And why I chose to jeopardize everything I’d worked for because of it.
I had a wild idea—to create my own audio recording. An “anonymous source” sent it to us—possible “proof” of the boyfriend discussing the crime with a fellow classmate. When we posted the audio submission, it wasn’t a lie exactly—I just forgot to mention that I was the “source”, and that I’d created the recording myself using easy-to-download apps and some software. Anonymous sources lie all the time; so, who cares if that source was me?
But I received a humbling lesson with the Stevens case—for every armchair detective out there like me, there’s a dozen more where that came from…
And once the audio clip went completely viral, we received calls from the Mount Zion police department and online analysts. The clip was played and analyzed hundreds of thousands of times; and since it was fake, it was quickly debunked. I knew it would be, but not so quickly. Apparently, piecing together your own sounds from the internet to form a new ‘unique’ clip, was not a novel idea either.
“We’re lucky that no one is pressing charges, Staci,” Jan said, snapping her fingers in the air to get my attention.
“I know and I’m sorry. It was so wrong of me to do—”
“I just don’t understand what you were thinking!” Jan pushed off the desk and started pacing back and forth in front of me like an angry schoolmarm. “You had to know that the clip would get looked into … that your lie would be uncovered. Did you really think the police would charge that boy without a body and all because some stupid YouTuber with an amateur audio file said so?!”
I flinched. “No, of course I knew they wouldn’t. And yes, I know I made a mistake. A huge one. But has it ever occurred to you that I did it for the right reasons? That my heart was in the right place…”
“Nothing you’re saying is making any sense!” Jan growled. She turned back toward her station but instead of organizing her makeup utensils, she started putting them away.
So, we’re finally done. I knew this day was coming … I just didn’t expect it to be today.
“Hear me out. I thought I was doing something noble, okay? It’s not fair, the way the media treats victims. If they’re not the right age or color, or they don’t look Instagram-worthy in their missing photos, then nobody gives a damn…” I could hear the shake in my voice, feel the flushing heat of tears coming. “Look, Jan. Please don’t go. I made up the clip for one simple reason. I knew it would gain us more attention and ultimately, bring more media interest to Kacey’s case. I don’t want her to get swallowed up in the missing case files of troubled girls. And I was willing to do whatever it took to bring more attention to it, and up the pressure on those detectives in charge of finding her! Even if it meant being dishonest … even if it meant risking it all…”
Jan zipped her bag and when she turned around to look at me, her face was a mask of pure disdain. “Well, we lost nearly a third of our subscribers over it and all of our credibility. The research we do means nothing if it isn’t real.”
“The research I do,” I corrected her. “You just paint your face.”
Now it was Jan’s turn to look affronted. “Yeah, well, I have a fucking job, Staci. I don’t have as much time as you do to dedicate to this channel. I wish I didn’t have to work. Wouldn’t that be nice? You ought to try getting a job yourself. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and blaming it on your mental illness. Do something with your life! This can’t be all of it … all you want…” Jan motioned toward the walls and the small bed in the corner. I shrunk back from her, shocked by her callous words and demeanor. Jan, the saint, finally unpinning her holy veil…
“Fuck you, Jan. Go back to your job and I’ll go back to working on these cases by myself like I originally intended…” I said, turning my back to her so she wouldn’t see the crumpled look on my face.
Without another word, she stormed out of my bedroom and stomped back down the hall. Moments later, I winced at the sound of the front door slamming.
Closing my eyes and rubbing my temples, I tried to convince myself that I was right, and Jan was wrong. But so much of what she’d said was true. I did jeopardize our research on the case, and I did it behind her back, costing us a ton of credibility and work we’d put into this channel. I also used my disorder as a crutch at times; there was some truth to that as well.
And she accused me of telling lies … that part is certainly true.
I sat down hard on the bed, making the worn-out springs groan in protest, and I pulled the covers over my legs.
I certainly am a liar for hiding the letter from her today…
But since Jan was no longer committed to the channel, then the letter shouldn’t matter to her anyway. Slowly, I wiped the tears from my cheeks and pulled out the small letter I’d hidden in my pocket earlier.
For the hundredth time this morning, I reread the tiny gold printed letters:
You are cordially invited to Beechwood Castle on November 9th, 2023 for a night you’ll never forget…
Even though I was an embarrassment to my family and a disappointment to my viewers and friends, the opportunity this letter presented was one small flicker of hope in the dimming cave of my existence.
Shortly after our channel grew in popularity and we started receiving correspondence from viewers, I’d agreed to take charge of our PO box and sort through all correspondence weekly on mine and Jan’s behalf. Most of the letters we received were compliments or complaints; sometimes they were suggestions or requests for us to cover specific cases. But this letter—this letter—finding it in the stack of mail was like Charlie finding the golden ticket to enter the chocolate factory.
Like Grandpa Joe, I was lying in bed, holding a tiny ticket of hope. This invitation could change everything … not only for my financial future, but for my channel and the sake of all future cold cases I wished to pursue.
The biggest local true crime case of my lifetime happened at the place where I was invited: Beechwood Castle. Not only would I now have an opportunity to experience the scene myself, but if I made it through the whole night—and there was no doubt about it, I would make it—then I’d walk away with enough money to get out from under my brother and sister-in-law and make a real name for myself online.
I should call Jan right now and tell her. After all, her name was in the letter.
Showing her the letter would be like a peace offering…
But I was done making peace for now.
It’s every man or woman for themselves.
I tucked the letter inside my nightstand, then set up for today’s video. I was prepared to cover the Ronnie Nichols case, but that would have to be put on hold for a little while.
My hair was messy and uncombed, and I wasn’t wearing any makeup, but none of that mattered anymore. I pressed the record button and took my seat, alone, at the vanity table. I’d spent the morning thinking about what I would say when the moment came, and that moment was now. But I had nothing specific planned. No script.
Sometimes it’s best to just go rogue.
“Hello to all my viewers. It’s me, your host, Stabby Staci,” I said, staring boldly into the lens. “I know that I usually say, ‘Hello, beautiful people’ when I begin a video, but that changes now. Being beautiful doesn’t make you good or worthy. And every woman out there, no matter how pretty, worthy, or kind, deserves to be found when she goes missing. I know what I did was wrong, y’all I’m not here today to justify those actions. But I would like to take a couple minutes to explain why I did what I did. I thought that if I created enough interest with the fake audio clip, then maybe the internet would help me find Kacey. As women, we spend so much time worrying about how we look—hell, up until today, I had an assistant doing her makeup on the show. But that all ends now, too. Jan will no longer be a part of this channel, and I’m sorry if that upsets some of you. But the truth is … no matter how much we try to dress it up and put a pretty spin on tragedy, there’s nothing beautiful about missing or dead women. Again, I’m sorry for what I did. My intentions were pure, but I made a massive mistake. I want to apologize to Kacey, wherever she is. As well as Kacey’s family and friends, and to the Mount Zion police department. Viewers, I must certainly apologize to you. You trusted me, and I failed you. I would understand if you stopped watching my videos … but now I’m here today, asking you to stick around. If only for a little while longer, I need you all to hang in there and give me another chance. Because something huge has happened. And it’s happened to me. Have you all heard of the Castle Mass Murder that happened in Rock Hill in 1996? Well, that happened only a few miles away from where I live. The Beechwood Castle grounds have been locked down since the nineties, well-gated by an electric fence and unpassable thickets and pines. But, last week, there was an announcement all over the news and social media. Some of you might have seen it, but most of you, probably not. It’s mostly been a big story around here, in my own small local community. After all these years, someone has purchased the property. I don’t know who it is, but this ‘someone’ is opening up the doors of the castle on November 9th and letting six guests inside. This was a horrific case, one that was never solved. A local, troubled man named Bobby Reeks was suspected of committing the crime, but I don’t believe that. There’s not enough evidence to prove he was the killer, and he’s no longer alive to defend himself. Now, six people will get a chance to go inside it. They will also be competing for money.”
I took a deep breath, adrenaline soaring through my veins. I wasn’t live, but I might as well have been.
“Viewers … one of those six is me. I’m going to Beechwood Castle for one night, and one night only. And sure, I’d love to win the money. But, most importantly, I want to share that experience with all of you, as much as they will permit, and I want to find out who killed those innocent teenagers back in 1996.”
I stood up behind the desk and placed my palms flat on the surface, leaning my face closer to the lens.
“Will you all stand by me for a little while longer? I need this chance to redeem myself, and I’m determined to do just that. I will make it up to all of you, at any cost.”
Chapter Two
Lolly
On the day my invitation to Beechwood Castle arrived, I wasn’t a bit surprised. Of course I’d been invited to that crumbling, cursed, piece-of-shit heap in the woods. It wouldn’t be a good PR stunt without me included, I’d thought, angrily ripping the invitation to shreds and shoving it down so deep in the trashcan that the bits got covered in glops of tuna and canned corn.
But now, one week later, the scratchy black letters on the invitation were still seared into my brain.
You are cordially invited to Beechwood Castle on November 9th, 2023, for a night you’ll never forget … its new owner plans to reinvigorate the property, but before they do, they’re offering you, and five others, an enthralling opportunity! You are invited to stay one night, as our guest. If you follow the rules and complete the night, you will receive your one-sixth share of one million dollars. If you plan to accept this challenge, please respond, in writing and postmarked by November 1st to the PO Box listed below. Upon acceptance, you will receive a packet filled with more detailed documents. See you soon.
Today is October 31st, only one day before the designated response date.
Such bullshit: the invitation written out like it was some sort of perverse theater—act one of an amateur play or the intro to a cringey murder-mystery videogame.
Well, they could kiss my ass—whoever this anonymous Willy Wonka asshole happened to be.
There wasn’t a chance in hell I was going, but I couldn’t help wondering who the other five invitees were, and what the exact motivations of the event planner were.
What did they hope to gain from my presence there? Notoriety? More answers about what happened all those years ago…?
I had no doubt this stunt and the invitations were related to the mass murder, but why, exactly? Was it because of the thirty-year anniversary of the tragedy? But no, that was still a few years away… Did they plan to film the invitees, make it some sort of documentary? Was the whole thing supposed to be centered around me?
Imagining the headlines, I stood at the kitchen counter, staring across the stretch of cornfields behind my childhood home as the sun settled behind the clouds and the moon made its first nightly appearance. Our closest neighbor was a half mile away, but I could still see the soft, haunting glow of his jack-o-lanterns, and the perfect, zig-zag rows cut through the cornfield that he set up every year for the local kids.
Halloween. What an awful day.
Sadie was due back in a couple hours; my thirteen-year-old daughter had attended her first school dance. Too old now for trick-or-treating, she’d dressed up in an elaborate Shrek costume (her best friend Jamie went as Donkey), and she’d caught a ride to the dance with her best friend’s mom.
I knew I shouldn’t be worried. Sadie was young and impulsive at times, like all young kids can be, but she had a good head on her shoulders. She didn’t drink or smoke or do any of the other reckless things I was doing when I was her age. At her age, I would have chosen a slutty Halloween costume, in an attempt to gain attention from boys. But not Sadie—she was funny and kind, and always focused on her own inner sanctum. She had the sort of confidence that I admired, and that I wish I had had a tiny sliver of when I was that age…
Thirteen.
Hard to believe that’s the age I was when I last entered Beechwood Castle. Less of a castle and more of a broken-down palace of crumbling pillars and rot-ridden walls, the property had been abandoned and grim even back then, twenty-seven years ago. It looked medieval with its tower and battlements, but it was actually built after the Civil War, by a group of brothers, all Union soldiers, to protect their families from another possible uprising in the South.
The place had been renovated and resold in the early twentieth century, used for multiple purposes, including a children’s orphanage at one time, and a refuge for the homeless during the Great Depression.
Some had even speculated that it had been around longer than that—there were stories when I was a child, kids calling it the “Witch’s Castle”. A wicked place full of vampires and occultists, and eventually even Satanists. But most of those stories were more myth than legend—an attempt by local adults to keep teenagers away from the thorny patch of forest and the dangerous rumbled house in the woods.
But those tall tales didn’t serve as a deterrent; in fact, they were the reason we went there, looking for adventure, and sometimes, trouble.
Over the years, I’d done a little online research on the castle, usually late at night when I couldn’t sleep. But mostly, I tried not to think about that hellish place at all. No matter what it was before, or what it became after, it would always be the place where my friends were brutally murdered.
Nothing will ever change that fact. And no amount of restoration or “breathing new life” into the forty-acre wooded property and that revolting “castle”, would change what happened there.
The people of Rock Hill would certainly never forget, and neither would I.
Through the windows, I watched a ghoulish group of children in the encroaching dark—probably aged nine or ten years old, followed closely by their parents—skipping toward my tiny farmhouse.
Trick or treat. There will be neither of those here. Not this year, nor the next. Sorry kids…
I made no moves toward the door; the porchlight was off—the universal sign for “go away” on Halloween night. I heard the stomp of tiny feet on the small porch anyway, and then the shouting of adult voices in the street. “The lights aren’t on! Come back, you guys! We never go to that house anyway.”
I closed my eyes and held my breath, waiting for them to leave.
Nobody came to this house, but it wasn’t the house itself they wished to avoid. It was the sad, haunting girl—a woman, now—who was known for one thing, and one thing only, in the town of Rock Hill. I was the final girl of the Beechwood Castle Massacre. The only one to survive that horrible night in 1996, when three of my friends were savagely slaughtered by a lunatic with an ax.
