Lost Souls: The Willits News, Oct. 7, 2015 22 reported as missing persons In Mendocino County.
WHERE HAS JULIA GONE? At the blackest and loneliest time of the night at the ranch, around 3am, my friend Julia is startled awake. Since her husband’s death, she’s had trouble sleeping, a problem she’d never had before. She’d swallowed a sleeping pill at midnight. Now, having slept for a couple of hours, she feels sluggish and slightly disoriented. How long has there been a knocking at the front door? Julia staggers out of bed, and without turning on a light, she pulls on the soft flannel shirt that Darren, her husband, had worn the week of his death. She keeps the shirt on the pillow next to her, cherishing his fading scent. From the bedside table she takes the heavy silver flashlight, but she doesn’t turn it on. Like a blind person, she feels her way through the dark house, moving toward the urgent sound of the knocking. Her breathing is shallow; her heart speeds erratically. Being awakened at this hour is disturbing. Her ranch is located miles from the town of Willits in Mendocino County, in Northern California. The sprawling, wooden house sits on a rise, surrounded by a huge barn, corral, chicken coop, garage, shed and acres of white fenced pasture land. A graveled, public road, the old stagecoach road, runs past the ranch. Either someone has emergency car trouble, or someone has come to deliver bad news. But in Julia’s case, bad news had been officially delivered weeks ago: Darren had been killed by a drunken driver, going the wrong way, on Highway 101, just south of Willits, forcing Darren down a steep ravine. Their German Shepherd, Rexie, in the truck with Darren, had also been killed. The drunk driver had been airlifted to Santa Rosa in critical condition. He lived and now faces manslaughter charges. Except for the big flashlight, Julia has no protection. Darren owned two guns that he’d once kept in his bedside table drawer. But he’d moved them when some friends with children came to visit. He couldn’t risk a curious or meddlesome child discovering the guns. He’d told Julia where he hid them, but she hadn’t paid attention. The ranch is primarily horses, Julia’s and Darren’s riding horses, plus the Palomino quarter horses that she breeds and sells, as well as the horses that she boards. Then there’s the menagerie: a slew of cats (strays that people dumped on the country road and found their way to the ranch), chickens and goats. But none of these animals serves as security guard; they haven’t the ability to scare off an intruder.
Julia stands for several minutes, staring into the darkness at the closed front door. She hates this feeling of fear, of helplessness. Abruptly the knocking stops. From a deep reservoir of strength, Julia undoes the double lock and pulls the door open. She calls out, Hello? She sweeps the flashlight right to left and back again. Nothing but blackness and a veil of mist. Julia slams the door shut and re-locks; she is trembling. The sleeping pill has lost its power; she is totally, terribly awake. To lie in bed again is unthinkable. She chooses one of the Lazy Boy recliners in the front room, facing the blank television. She waits for the sun to rise. She determines to adopt another dog, one fierce and strong (like Rexie). Also, she will hire someone to install sensor lights at both doors and one near the barn. She worries about her horses, her most beloved and valuable possessions. I happen to phone her that morning around seven. I know she’ll be up; she always rises early to take care of her animals and chores. I ask her how she is doing, expecting her typical, upbeat reply. “Not so good,” she says. I can tell from her voice that something is wrong. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing really. Nothing I can put my finger on. Just a bad feeling.” She tells me about the incident in the night. She says she’s been sitting, like a zombie, waiting for daylight. Daylight came and still she hadn’t moved. She wonders aloud, “Why would someone wake me in the middle of the night, then not respond when I called?” I ask, “Could it have been that strange man who lives down the road in a trailer?” “Mope? Mope’s eccentric. He’s not mean,” she says, defensively. To my mind, Mope is more than eccentric. Years of alcohol and drug abuse have left him pathetic looking, scraggly and jumpy. But I know better than to argue with Julia; she prides herself as a good judge of character, and she is seldom wrong. Mope works for her, odd jobs, as needed, about the ranch. I attempt optimism. I say, “Some stranger knocking at your door in the middle of the night is annoying. But better than someone sneaking around, quietly trying to break in.” “Well, the thing is, I don’t think this person has left. I feel someone’s hiding. Waiting.” “Oh, Julia. You have to call the police.” She doesn’t respond. “Julia, seriously. Julia?” “I hear you. I need to hang up. I need to phone Mope to help me with the chores. I’m going to search the house for Darren’s guns.” “Julia, I can come and stay with you for a few days. I can be there by mid-afternoon.” “No. No, that’s not necessary. Thanks for calling.” She hangs up.
It’s true, I’m not much help in a crisis. After Darren’s memorial service, I’d stayed at the ranch for a few days, as had other friends, in turn. It was Julia who comforted me when I cried; Julia shopped and cooked and did her chores. But I was there; I was a warm body to talk to; I was companionable, I tell myself. The isolation of the ranch, the shrouding blackness at night (so black that when I got up in the middle of the night I could not see my hand in front of my face), made me skittish. But Julia and Darren relished the isolation. Both had been born and raised in San Francisco; Darren worked for the police force and Julia as a radio dispatcher. They were not wimps, but weary of crime and city life. They retired at fifty five, used their savings to purchase the ranch. It was the fulfillment of their dreams. Then, after only five years, Darren was dead.
Julia kept Darren’s body under refrigeration at a local mortuary for several weeks. She had ordered a crypt; she didn’t want him buried underground. When the crypt arrived, Julia was alone. She had expressed to her friends her need to say goodbye to Darren in private. When the crypt was ready, two men from the mortuary in town delivered the casket to the isolated, weed infested little cemetery on the old stage coach road where Julia waited. After the men had placed the casket into the crypt, they drove away, leaving Julia alone. She stayed for several hours, pulling weeds, picking up debris around the crypt. Silently at first, then timidly aloud, she communicated with Darren. She had waited a long time for him in life; she resisted parting with him in death. She stayed until almost dark, leaning against the huge, shiny crypt that looked as out of place in this ancient cemetery as a computer would in Abe Lincoln’s log cabin. Julia regretted that she had not demanded to look at Darren one last time before the crypt was closed.
Following my morning phone conversation with Julia, I call one of our mutual friends, Mary Lou, in Willits. I tell her I am concerned about Julia. She says she’ll drive out to the ranch and check on her. That evening Mary Lou calls. She says she’d been out to the ranch in the afternoon, but Julia wasn’t there. She found Mope in the barn cleaning stalls. Mope told her he hadn’t seen Julia; he had only spoken to her on the phone early in the day. Mope said one of Julia’s horses is missing. We conclude that she has gone for a long ride. I phone again and again and get the answering machine. The following day Mary Lou returns to the ranch. All doors to the house are locked. Mary Lou pounds and calls out but gets no response. She requests Mope to cover the ranch on horseback while she covers the surrounding roads in her car, but no sign of Julia. Mary Lou tells me she’ll try again tomorrow and let me know. The following day proves the same, except for one difference: Julia’s missing horse has returned to the barn. Mary Lou and I both agree that the police need to be notified. The police
search the house and the grounds of the ranch. They find no sign of Julia or of any disturbance. Darren’s flannel shirt hangs in the doorway of their bedroom. Mope is questioned and cleared. Friends and acquaintances are questioned and cleared. Julia is officially listed in police records as a missing person, one among many in Mendocino County.
A year later, on the anniversary of Darren’s death, I travel from the Bay Area to place flowers at his crypt. As soon as I arrive at the desolate little cemetery and leave the security of my car, my courage deserts me. My mind is spooked by some of the disturbing tales told in the aftermath of Julia’s disappearance. One: that she managed to enter the crypt and lies with Darren. But this would prove impossible without help. And who would help her? Could she have been forced into the crypt against her will? The authorities determined there was not sufficient cause to enter the crypt and open Darren’s coffin. Unless bones or some other clue presents itself, we have to accept that Julia has simply vanished.
Pdf Entry Information Exhibitor Name: Lisa Johnson WEN: 687644 Division: FA - 362 - Short Story Class: 06 Senior Mystery/Thriller - exhib Title: WHERE HAS JULIA GONE Description: Woman missing in Mendocino County
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