Lindsey Blum

November 21, 2014

A-1/Thompson
Creative Writing
The Disappearance of Daniel
Introduction
At night George Harley could still hear the muffled cries of his wife, though she
had divorced him two years before. He heard her sniffles and the quiet padding of her
socked feet run across the wooden floor to the bathroom and throw up from holding in
her sobs. He heard her every night. He would cover his ears and scream as loud as he
could, over and over, until his throat was raw and he woke the neighbors. But still he
heard.
Each morning he went into the empty bedroom down the hall from his own, and
opened his sons windows, though no one had lived there in over three years. Everything
was neat and orderly- Batman pajamas folded neatly at the foot of the bed, picture frames
of smiling faces clean of dust, and a Scooby-Doo nightlight plugged into the faded blue
wall by the door. A soccer ball and a pair of crusted muddy cleats sat next to each other in
a far corner of the room, looking as though a young boy would pick them up to play a
game at any moment. But they had remained there untouched since June of 2007, and it
was 2011 now.

Lindsey Blum

November 21, 2014

A-1/Thompson
Creative Writing
Mr. Harley often talked to himself in an effort to keep sane. My sister and I could
hear him every day when he would water his daisies and petunias in the front yard, but
we all knew he lost his mind the day he lost his son. Different stories drifted around about
what actually happened when they went on their yearly camping trip; some say that
Daniel slipped off a cliff, others say he drowned in the river. But Mr. Harley never talked
to us directly about it, and we never asked.
I guess you could say I am obsessed with Mr. Harley, in the way that doctors are
obsessed with insane patients. I remember the first day he and his wife moved across the
street. My sister, Isabelle, and I walked over and greeted them with my moms
neighborhood famous fudge brownies. Mr. Harley was in his mid-thirties, a telemarketer
that worked from home, and his receding hairline made Isabelle and I giggle into our
shoulders. He had thin rectangle-shaped glasses framing his eyes- one watery blue, the
other a mournful brown. He had a fluffy brownish-graying mustache that reminded me of
a squirrels tail, and he had wrinkles already forming around the ends of his eyes and on
his forehead. He constantly seemed worried or stressed, which seemed to take a toll on
his appearance, and made him look like a sixty year-old man.
Mrs. Amanda Harley was twenty-nine and she had long hair that was so blonde
that it seemed almost white. She was the only person who could get Mr. Harley to laugh,
besides when he was laughing to be polite. Her eyes were bright blue like the flames in a
fire, and her voice was like warm honey. Saturdays were her wash days, and I would sit

Lindsey Blum

November 21, 2014

A-1/Thompson
Creative Writing
outside and listen to her sing as she hung wet clothes on a line to dry in the warm summer
sun.
Daniel Harley was almost four when I met him, and five when he disappeared. He
had fat chubby cheeks with dimples, and grayish blue eyes- one a tad bit darker than the
other. He had short brown hair that was long around the ears, and bangs that went straight
across his forehead, almost making him look like the little Chinese boy down the street.
His eyes were framed by long dark eyelashes that got him whatever he wanted if he bat
them at the right person, and his gleeful laughter was infectious. Mrs. Harley would pay
me and Isabelle each three dollars an hour to babysit Daniel when she and Mr. Harley
would go out on Friday nights, and we would stay up and play with the wooden toy
soldiers that Mr. Harley made for him until Daniel finally fell asleep in one of our laps.
After Daniels disappearance, Mrs. Harley stopped coming over to talk to us. I
mean, I guess she never had a reason to anymore. She didnt have a son for us to babysit
anymore. She dyed her hair an ugly and unnatural dark brown color that made her face
look even more pale, and it magnified the dark circles under her eyes, making her look
half-dead. During the summer Isabelle and I would sleep with our windows open at night
to let the cool air drift in, and we could hear her cries all the way across the street. She
stopped singing.
After a year or so she left without a word to any of us; she got into her small
silver Honda and drove away. I dont think Mr. Harley ever laughed again. He became
crazy, he did. But then again, maybe he always was. Maybe it was his wife and son that

Lindsey Blum

November 21, 2014

A-1/Thompson
Creative Writing
kept him in his right mind. All I know is that after they left, so did his sanity. The first
week after Mrs. Harley was gone, I heard a cry from their house. It wasnt just a sad
sound, it was almost animalistic- a sound of pure anguish, and it chilled me to the bone. I
snuck out of my window, and I raced across the street and stood on their lawn. Lights
flooded his house as he turned switches on one by one, and I watched his movement from
behind a tree.
Mr. Harley stumbled into his kitchen, his feet dragging across the black and white
checkered floors. His face was long and drawn, his eyes red-rimmed and hazy. He was
wearing a white t-shirt that was so dirty in places that it had turned gray, and red flannel
pajama bottoms that were starting to tear and fray at the bottom with strings trailing
behind him like a tattered flag. He rubbed his eyes in the blinding lights that he had
flipped on, and he reached above him to the liquor cabinet lining the top of the pantry. I
was afraid then, sure he would go into a drunken rage and kill himself or everyone else in
the neighborhood. Instead he took the bottle with him to the next room, the living room,
and sat on his brown sofa and stared at the blank television screen for an hour.
finally, he got up from the sofa and turned off the lights in the kitchen and the
living room. I figured he was just going back to bed, but then the half-empty glass bottle
slipped forgotten from his hand and the dark brown alcohol seeped into the creamcolored carpet as he looked around wildly as if he had heard something. Mr. Harley
staggered into the doorway, his back facing me, and then he turned down the hall

Lindsey Blum

November 21, 2014

A-1/Thompson
Creative Writing
and vanished. I wondered where he was going, and curiosity got the best of me. I
decided to follow him.
I raced silently to the kitchen window I knew was always unlocked, and used the
sill of it to help hoist myself up and into the house. I tossed my shoes into the wet dewed
grass and was left with only my socks as I climbed soundlessly down from the kitchen
countertop. I could hear nothing but my breathing and my heartbeat as I decided where to
go from here. I obviously wasnt thinking right, to go inside a drunk mans home late at
night, but I was obsessed with why he acted the way he did. I tip-toed to the carpet of the
living room and peeked around the corner to the illuminated hallway. It was empty, and I
sighed with relief. I saw a staircase that led to the basement and I immediately knew that
was where he went. My heart was pounding so hard with adrenaline and the fear of
getting caught, that it felt like my whole body was trembling. I took one step forward and
felt the warm dampness of the liquor-soaked carpet press against my socked foot. I
involuntarily jerked myself back, falling into a glass compartment of trinkets and china
dishes.
The world spun in slow motion as I tried to catch myself, but it was too late. The
sound of shattering glass and porcelain filled the quiet house for what seemed like an
eternity. And then it was silent. Heavy footsteps running up stairs got closer and closer,
and I froze in terror like a rabbit in headlights. I barely had time to pick myself up and
slip behind the television set before Mr. Harley burst into the room holding a knife in one
hand and a half-carved wooden soldier in the other. His glasses were askew and there was

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November 21, 2014

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Creative Writing
a thin layer of sweat covering his face. I held my breath as he approached my hiding
place. He looked around once, twice, then decided to investigate another room. I took off
my socks and stuffed them into my pants as I quickly made my way back to the kitchen. I
was halfway out the window when the living room light came back on and I slipped the
rest of the way out, landing hard on my back as the wind was knocked out of me. I laid
there for about five minutes and grabbed my shoes and ran back home without looking
back. That was the last time I was at Mr. Harleys. Until last Friday.
Every so often I would watch Mr. Harleys house. I had gotten a pair of binoculars
for my fifteenth birthday, so I used them occasionally to look through the windows. Most
of the time Mr. Harley was either on the phone or carving wooden soldiers, which was
something he had been doing nonstop. But lately he had become different. He would
be up at late hours of the night typing rapidly on a small laptop computer and then take
notes on a yellow legal pad. He would finish and then hide the note pad in a drawer in the
kitchen under dishtowels by the sink. He seemed so secretive and I had to find out what
was up.
I had watched Mr. Harley so often over the years that I knew his schedule by
heart. Every Friday afternoon he would put on a suit and tie and then get into his black
suburban and drive into town and be gone for four to five hours. I decided that was the
day I needed to break into his house again. Friday morning I stuck two fingers down my
throat and made myself throw up so I could stay home sick. As soon as Mr. Harley got
into his car and disappeared down the street I shimmied in through the window and

Lindsey Blum

November 21, 2014

A-1/Thompson
Creative Writing
searched the drawer for the notebook. There was just one problem, it was gone. Then
there was another problem, I heard the motor of his car just outside of the house. He
shouldnt have been there- he had just left. I closed the drawer with a snap and hid behind
the kitchen door right as the front door opened and Mr. Harley walked in, muttering about
forgetting his grocery money. He walked past me and went up the stairs that were on the
wall separating the kitchen from the living room. I snaked around the door and was
halfway down the driveway by his car when I heard the front door slam, and I knew it
was him. There was only one thing to do.
I opened the back cab of the suburban enough to squeeze inside, and I hid under a
dirty tarp that was in the floorboards. It was completely black underneath the dark blue
tarp, and it smelled like oil and earth and it was making me feel claustrophobic. I lifted a
corner and happily gulped in the fresh air. Suddenly Mr. Harley slammed on the brakes
and with the squealing of tires I was launched into the back door of the suburban and lost
consciousness.
When I finally came to, my head felt heavy and swollen and I had a hard time
remembering where I was. With a jolt I realized I was still in Mr. Harleys suburban. I
gingerly sat up and tried to look out the window and found that the car was parked
outside of a late night farmers market. Street lights illuminated the dirt road and reflected
on the white tent with rows of flat wooden tables holding vegetables and fruit. I ducked
back under the tarp as Mr. Harley came closer and opened the drivers door.

Lindsey Blum

November 21, 2014

A-1/Thompson
Creative Writing
I was petrified as I heard what he was saying. Just one. I only need one. It
doesnt matter what age. I just need one. At first I thought he was on the phone, but no.
he was talking out loud to himself. I hardly dared to look above the seat, but when I did I
saw him staring at four children that were playing in a watermelon patch to the right of
the suburban. My insides turned to ice. He then came around to the back of the car and
opened the door where I was. I lay motionless under the tarp and prayed he wouldnt find
me. He grabbed a gasoline can and slammed the door shut. I looked out the window to
see him pouring the gas on the white tent and watched with horror as he lit a match and
threw it without a moments hesitation. The four kids that were previously playing began
to scatter and run like everyone else that saw the fire, but Mr. Harley tackled the smallest
one with a red Spiderman shirt. He held tight to him as he struggled and tossed him into
the back of the truck with me. The kid was dazed, not sure what was going on, but before
he could start screaming I took the tarp off of myself and shushed him.
He turned his head to look at me, his brown hair falling into his eyes wide with
fear. There was something unsettling about him. He looked familiar. He was less chubby
than I remembered, his dimples pinched his cheeks as he scrunched up his mouth and
furrowed his eyebrows in uncertainty and the instinct to fight or flee. His eyes were hard
to see under his shaggy brown hair, but they were grayish blue. One just a tad bit darker
than the other.