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Greg Johnson was a dedicated bureau investigator. He walked around the blood soaked living room that had once belonged to the Wilson family. He had been through the files and photographs of the crime scene and accepted the fact that Jeremy Wilson had been killed on the living room couch. An axe, with Jeremy's wife's fingerprints, had been recovered from the scene. Jeremy's wife, Celia, and their 9 year old son, Rob, were missing.

The house was dark, save for the small ray of light provided by Greg's penlight. He made his way up the carpeted staircase into Rob's bedroom. It was a typical 9 year old's room. Posters of Scooby Doo and Superman decorated the walls and Pokeman playing cards were strung out on his bed. On the wall, next to the bed was a small bulletin board with a single picture tacked into the center. Upon closer inspection, the picture was a child's drawing of a black barn in the middle of a forest. Inside the opening of the barn, Greg thought that he could make out bodies and faces contorted into a large pile.

He remembered a black barn when he assisted the local authorities in searching a five mile radius surrounding the Wilson house. He had seen the barn in the distance, but he had assumed that the barn had already been searched. Dejavu rattled his senses like an alarm clock. He usually felt this way when he discovered something important. He was seldom wrong.

He called Sheriff Brookes on his way to the black barn. He cringed as he realized that it was almost midnight. The sheriff answered the phone on the third ring. "Hello."

"Sheriff, Greg Johnson. I'm on my way to that black barn about five miles east of the Wilson house." Greg gave the sheriff a moment to gather his senses. "I think that the Wilson woman may have taken Rob there. I can't explain it right now, but could you meet me there?"

The sheriff yawned, "black barn? Son, there ain't anything going on there. That's Roger Brown's old place."

"I understand that, but it's just a feeling I have. Can you meet me?"

Greg thought the sheriff had hung up. "Alright, I'll be there after I get dressed."

"Thanks Sheriff."

Fog began to settle in the valley. Greg switched from low beams to high beams, trying to decide which gave him greater visibility. He settled on the low beams. He drove carefully through the milky haze and began to think that he was lost. A mailbox next to the road proclaimed that R. Brown lived in the area. He pulled the Jeep to the side and press checked his pistol. Satisfied that he was

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