This story is Part Three of an ongoing narrative. Parts One and Two are available through the preceding links.
It’s taken me a long time, but the pieces are finally starting to come together.
When you look at the evidence, it makes sense why nobody’s been able to do it before. He strikes randomly, across the continent. The only real correlation seems to be in the victim profile; a child, somewhere between the ages of six and fourteen, disappears without a trace. They are often described as precocious. Perhaps this is a tool he uses to draw them in. If they aren’t afraid of strangers, maybe they would miss the danger until it was too late.
I’m going to be presenting this to my board soon. I need to finish the dissertation if I’m to defend. God knows I have an uphill battle already with this subject, so I really have to lay all the cards on the table.
Yes, even you. I’ll need to tell them about you, too.
April 1933 – Detroit, MI
The precise date of this abduction is unknown, but it’s the earliest missing-child report that bears any resemblance to those concerning the so-called “Bric-a-Brac Man.” I include it here for the sake of being comprehensive; the story is slim and all witnesses are long-dead. I’ve tried reaching out to families, but with little luck. I’m not surprised. If the witnesses are like the others, they wouldn’t have wanted to tell. To tell is to remember, and most would rather forget.
The abducted, Arthur Wells, was a child labourer at an auto plant which abutted the Detroit River. He worked on the line and was largely responsible for the kind of work which benefited from his slim child’s fingers or his short stature. While little is known about Wells’s homelife, one can likely assume that he was as impoverished as any other child labourer in that era; families only sent their children to work if there were no alternatives.
Reports from his colleagues gathered on the day of the disappearance suggest that Wells was a bright young boy who had become “one of the men,” as it were, frequently spending time with them chatting during their scant reprieves. Despite how deplorable the fact of his working might appear in hindsight, Wells himself allegedly enjoyed the work; He was often heard remarking that twenty cents an hour did far more good than a few words in Latin ever would. His work did not go unnoticed and management indicated that they had earmarked his name for supervisory work once he had matured further.
While the fact a child labourer was considered for promotion is in itself notable, we should not forget that the employment of children was a brutal, ill-paying practice. As much as Wells allegedly professed his satisfaction with the work, it should not occlude the fact that he would regularly walk the length of the riverside path, looking for spare coins or begging for scraps of food from street-side vendors.
According to one colleague, Reginald Mills, this was a typical part of the boy’s routine: “Yeah, we always saw him taking that way home. I think he lived somewhere south of the plant, so he’d wander all down the length of the river until the path ended, trying to get whatever he could. Even in the winter, he’d trudge through the snow, and the wind would come up wicked from the river, and yet still he’d walk home that way. I’m not really sure what it was about. Poor fellow. I wish we could say that we’d have been able to spare some change for the streetcar, but that’d be a lie. We needed it just as much as he did.”
It was during one of these walks that Arthur Wells disappeared. By all accounts, it was a sunny day in April, the kind of day where the world feels as though it’s begun to wake but has yet to fully wipe the sleep from its eyes. The precise day has been forgotten, and efforts to recover a report from the Detroit police have been stymied; most likely no report exists at all. Boys died all of the time at manufacturing plants. What more would they care if a boy died on his way home from one?
The last sighting of Arthur Wells was by one of his co-workers, Horace Thompson. Thompson described seeing Wells walking away from the plant with a tall man in a black bowler hat, with a black coat. Thompson, evidently an aspiring poet, described the man’s appearance as an “inkstain on a clean sheet of paper.” Thompson later expressed regret for not calling the police sooner, admitting that he had thought it odd that Wells was travelling north, rather than his usual southerly direction.
The police were not called until the following morning, when Wells failed to clock in to his shift. The line supervisors, cognizant of Wells’s typical timeliness, afforded him an additional ten minutes’ grace. When Wells did not show, they paid no mind, striking him from the rolls and hiring one of the men who regularly gathered outside the plant’s doors. It was his colleagues who later called the police, pooling their money to do so after the day’s shift had ended.
The police, of course, found nothing.
While the evidence for Wells’s abduction by the Bric-a-Brac Man is thin, it cannot be set aside. His story deserves to be told, and his memory deserves answers.
November 24, 1963 – Albany, NY
As I write these stories, the reader might be inclined to cast judgment on the parents of these children. While the impulse is perhaps understandable, it should not be indulged; the simple and tragic truth of parenthood is that it is impossible to always be watching your children. For most children, that simply results in a bruised elbow, a skinned knee, or perhaps a few stitches.
But not always.
Few would blame Martha Brixley, mother of Joanna, for her attention to the television on November 24th, 1963. President Kennedy had been assassinated in Dallas two days prior, and the world was watching the birth of the modern infotainment cycle.
It was the middle of the day, and Martha’s husband, Lyle, was at work. She had just prepared lunch for her and her daughter, and both had sat down with a glass of lemonade and their sandwiches to watch the transfer of President Kennedy’s assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, from Dallas police headquarters.
There was a knock on the door. Distracted by the television, Martha asked Joanna to answer the door. Joanna leaped up; the news wasn’t half as interesting to her as it was to her mother, and she’d been practicing speaking to strangers more. Mr. Hardy, the butcher, was particularly kind to her, offering her strips of jerky whenever she remembered to address him as “sir.”
The door opened and Martha craned her head, her eyes leaping back and forth from the hallway to the television. Oswald was being escorted from the police station, detectives on either side of him. Oswald was slight and short. It seemed impossible for him to have killed a man with Kennedy’s presence.
Martha could hear Joanna speaking to somebody. The other person had a high voice that seemed to wheeze on the vowels. She couldn’t make out much of the conversation, so she decided to get up and see who was at the door.
On the television, a man rushed from the crowd. A bang was heard. Pandemonium. Bodies rushing in, filling the space. A brief glimpse of Oswald’s boyish face contorted in agony. A voice repeating, “he’s been shot! Lee Oswald’s been shot!” and then Martha was in her chair again, her hands over her mouth. There was a low moaning sound. She realized after a moment that it was her.
Martha watched the coverage for another ten minutes before she realized that the door was still open. She called her daughter’s name, but there was no answer. The first needle of worry. She got to her feet and went to the door, which laid wide open. The street outside was sunny and stark and a car drove by, one of the new Plymouths that Lyle had always talked about getting.
There was no sign of Joanna. According to Martha, the only sign of anybody ever having been there was a faint smell of chocolate and oranges.
In this story, it might be easy to blame Martha, to ask why she didn’t better watch over her daughter. I challenge those parents to ask themselves whether they’ve ever let their children do anything alone. If the answer is “yes,” then I ask that you send your blame elsewhere. The tragedy of Joanna Brixley is one of circumstance, of bad timing. Children will always be vulnerable, so long as the Bric-a-Brac Man is out there.
In closing, it’s worth noting that Martha Brixley is now eighty-nine, living in a nursing home in [redacted], NY. She is suffering from advanced Alzheimer’s and asks every day when her daughter is coming to visit.
August 12th, 1974 – Aspen, CO
What little information I have about this case is gathered from police reports, interviews, and eyewitness testimony. It was perhaps the most well-documented sighting of the Bric-a-Brac Man prior to the events of the December 2016 abduction.
Aspen, Colorado, is a resort town. While it has since diversified its activities to appeal to summer vacationers as well, business in 1974 was much more seasonal. Residents sought new opportunities to earn an income in the off-season. For Roy Anderson, hosting a birthday party for his son, Wesley, was a perfect opportunity to showcase his new business; he had recently made a sizeable investment in the then-new technology of inflatable bounce-houses (or bouncy castles, if you prefer), and his first piece of equipment was due to arrive three days before his son’s birthday.
When Roy told Wesley the news, his son was overjoyed. Roy’s wife, Denise, was more skeptical of this new investment, but she knew the summers were hard for seasonal workers and was willing to take a risk in order to help Wesley go to college. Roy had purchased the equipment using his marine stipend from the war in Vietnam. Since he seldom talked about the war, Denise had decided that it was best to let him decide where the money should be allocated.
In anticipation of the day, Denise and Wesley collaborated on fliers that would be distributed to his classmates. Roy passed them out downtown as well; he wanted as many people as possible to attend his son’s birthday. While this may sound careless to a modern reader, it is important to remember that, for the residents of a small-town in a quiet season, it seemed impossible that anything could go wrong.
The day approached. Wesley, a small but bright boy, began to have trouble sleeping. He would reliably knock on his parents’ door every night, asking to be let in. This was a habit he had enjoyed as a younger boy, but Roy and Denise had worked together to encourage independence in the last year. While they feared relenting might cause him to backslide, they were willing to accommodate it in the days leading up to his birthday, figuring that nerves were probably the reason anyway.
When August 12th finally dawned, it finally became clear to Roy that he had managed, perhaps unintentionally, to organize a small fair. Three of his neighbours arrived that morning with their barbecues, ready to help him grill for the guests. Denise welcomed them with freshly-squeezed orange juice, while Wesley practically bounced with excitement and anticipation. Outside, the bounce-house laid flat like a flayed animal on the lawn. A corrugated tube curled away from it towards the pump.
The guests were due to arrive at one. The smell of hot dogs and hamburgers was heavy in the air. Balloons and games were set up across the yard, framing the bounce-house in the centre. Some people showed up early, but the bulk of the guests, invited or not, began to arrive shortly after the event began.
Roy and Denise Anderson would later recount that everything was going quite well at the beginning of the afternoon. The children were remarkably well-behaved, and the adults were able to maintain a quiet simmering drunkenness; enough to enjoy themselves, but not so much that it would cause problems.
Still, the problems came.
The first inkling that something had gone wrong came later in the day, in the sleepier hours of the afternoon. In truth, Roy had expected that people would begin to file out at some point; children have relatively short attention spans, and feeding them hot dogs and hamburgers is a surefire way to hasten boredom. But there was no sign of this. People continued to file in, even as the day grew long and the sun began to sink towards the western ridge.
No one has ever been able to pinpoint when it started, but everyone knew once it had begun.
Voices rose from the back lawn of the Anderson house. It was the kind of low angry din of a dissatisfied crowd, a simmering, palpable tension. Shouting began, and Roy described seeing the first child get pushed out of the line and onto the grass, smacking his head against the earth.
“I was across the lawn before I knew it,” said Roy. “I didn’t think, I didn’t stop, hell, I don’t even know if I really processed it, I was just out there.” In the recording, he wiped his eyes. “Sometimes I wonder if I could have been faster. Or if I should have invited less people. I know I can’t change anything about what happened, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting to.”
The children in the line continued to push. Roy caught some of what they were yelling; they were imploring “that guy in black” to get off the bounce-house, saying that he’d already had his turn. Roy described looking then toward the inflatable and catching a blurry smear of black leaping between the rainbow of clothing the children wore.
There was a sudden bang, loud enough to echo between the houses. Several of the men, Roy included, dropped to the ground, taken over by either instinct or trauma. The children screamed, but few of them actually fell to the ground too. Most even kept their places in line. The men slowly began to pick themselves up. Roy later said that he remembers little of what came next, only that he rose from the ground to the sounds of children complaining. He turned to look at the bounce-house and saw that it was slowly deflating. One piece connected to another.
“I started shouting ‘get off the ride, get off the ride!” said Roy. “I don’t know if anyone could hear me. There were so many voices . . . everything was confused then.”
“I was watching from the kitchen window,” said Denise. “I figured that Roy had everything under control, but once I saw those castle walls start to fall in, I knew there would be a problem. I ran out into the yard to help.”
“By the time she got out, the castle was almost totally deflated. They later said that there was a significant rupture in the material of the structure. But the damndest thing about it was that it was in the middle of nowhere, materially speaking. It wasn’t on a seam or anything. It just burst.”
“Roy blames himself,” admitted Denise. “Everybody knows he shouldn’t, but he does. It was his investment, he says. His responsibility. How was he to know what would happen to those kids?”
The ultimate toll of that day was five deaths and three presumed deaths. Police have few answers. For the five confirmed deaths, the coroner was able to determine that the weight of the early bounce-house material smothered the riders as the structure collapsed. Firefighters were slow to the scene, as the adults first tried to rescue the children themselves before calling the authorities.
Still unexplained are the three missing, including Wesley Anderson. No bodies were ever recovered from the structure. No sign of any of the children was ever found. The only clue is the report of the man in black, bouncing along with the rest of the children, but there was no sign of him, either.
The preceding interviews were conducted separately while a liability investigation was underway. Roy was ultimately cleared of wrongdoing, choosing afterward to immediately launch litigation against the manufacturer of the bounce-house. While the suit was in progress, he and Denise gave one final interview on the subject.
“I can accept I’m going to hell,” said Roy, “Even if I didn’t make the damn castle, I brought all of those people together. Should I have supervised things better? Made sure rules were clear about what you could bring onto the ride? These thoughts run through my head endlessly, but none of them have any answers.”
“Who was the man?” asked Denise. “Lots of people describe a man in black on the ride, but nobody remembers seeing him off the ride. Certainly he doesn’t sound like anyone I knew, and there’s nobody in the pictures.”
“You’ll have to excuse my wife,” said Roy. “We all want to know what happened to the missing boys. Trying to conjure another missing person isn’t helping.”
Denise looked at her husband for a long moment. There is a palpable tension to this interview, even forty years later.
“It might help find Wesley,” she said. “It might help find Wesley.”
December 25th, 1987 – Calgary, AB
I never wanted to tell this story. I wish it was somebody else’s story to tell. But how could I exclude it? It’s what started me on this path.
Read the story of a girl–my sister–who disappeared from her own bedroom on a wintry night, and you’ll see I never had a choice at all.
July 12-15th, 2003 – New Jersey Pine Barrens
In the southern part of the state of New Jersey, there is a huge expanse of land known as the Pine Barrens or the Pinelands. Most famous now perhaps for an episode of HBO’s The Sopranos, the terrain is rugged and tough, a gnarling landscape of coastal forest, sandy soil, and a bizarre ecology unlike that in the rest of the north-eastern United States.
In the summer of 2003, a boys’ leadership-training group went out on a multi-day camping trip to the Pine Barrens. Their guide, Peter Mellen, was an experienced outdoorsman who had completed expeditions of Kilimanjaro and Denali. At the time of his death, he was saving money for a trip to Everest.
The boys themselves – Sawyer, William, and Thom – were all from underprivileged homes. This was their first time camping, and from all accounts, each was incredibly excited for the opportunity.
Their disappearance was first noted when Peter failed to drop the boys off at the agreed-upon time outside their school in Manahwakin, NJ. As this took place but a few years before cellphones became common-place, the families had little choice but to wait. Assuming that traffic was the cause, the families allowed another two hours. When nobody arrived, they called the police.
State troopers and forest rangers began an immediate canvassing of the Pine Barrens. Peter had provided a detailed map of where they planned on hiking, along with the points where he anticipated camping on each day. He had left this with program directors in case of an emergency.
Following the map found nothing. All of the spots marked on the maps showed no signs of having been used as a campsite in recent weeks. Bewildered, the troopers and rangers expanded elsewhere. Peter Mellen was listed as a prime suspect in the abduction of the three young boys, and a special episode of America’s Most Wanted was aired concerning the disappearance. Many calls and tips came, but no answers.
The search continued until October, when they found a man’s decomposing skeleton in a small cave, sheltered at the mouth of a ravine. Forensic work revealed two things: that the deceased was Peter Mellen, and that the cause of death had been a catastrophic inversion of the ribcage.
In other words: somebody opened the ribcage.
The gruesome scene provided few answers to the authorities. There were signs of a camp and of the boys, but nothing that provided a trail. People began to speculate as to what might have happened. Hardliners against Peter Mellen argued that he had tried to abduct or otherwise harm the boys, and they had rebelled, killing their attacker. Once this was done, guilt or fear or panic drove them into the woods, where they may have fallen victim to one of the bogs scattered throughout the Barrens. Their bodies might never be recovered, they argued.
Others, myself included, maintain Peter’s innocence. There is a great distance between murder in self-defense and the brutality of Peter’s death. Once one accepts that Peter was not killed by the boys, the questions change: Why were they so far from their planned path? What killed Peter Mellen? Were the three boys present at the time of his death, or did they flee beforehand?
Answers are unlikely to come. I was reluctant to even include this case – the modus operandi is so different from the known patterns of the Bric-a-Brac Man. The children were not alone, nor were they even isolated from the adult. The attack was in the middle-of-nowhere, not in an urban area. Somebody was physically harmed, but not abducted. Was it because he was an adult, or did he try to defend the boys?
Despite these discrepancies, I am certain that it was the Bric-a-Brac Man. I suggested it to the authorities, but they took me about as seriously as I fear my department will. But who else would have dressed up Peter Mellen that way? Who else would have placed a bowler hat on his head and hung a jangling silver bauble from each protruding rib?
The answers might be few, but they are there. You just have to be willing to accept them.
December 25th, 2016 – Kingston, ON
This is probably the most famous disappearance, as well as the most recent, and so I will limit the amount of ink I spill on the subject. Readers wishing to learn more about this may read my write-up here.
On Christmas Day 2016, a young boy named Jeff King was abducted from his bedroom by an unknown person. He had been playing with a Polaroid camera he’d been gifted earlier that same day. The only known people in the house at the time of the disappearance were his grandparents and his mother. His grandparents refuse to say anything further on the matter. His mother has been institutionalized.
I have been unable to find any of the grandparents’ comments on that day, other than the simple acknowledgement that they were asleep at the time of the disappearance. His mother has said nothing since that day other than “picture,” a likely reference to the Polaroid photo found on the floor of Jeff’s bedroom.
It shows a teary-eyed young boy forcing a grin. Next to him is a man with a patchwork face, eyes affixed to the boy.
Looking at this photo, I see the face I’ve hunted for so long. There’s no question in my mind. There never was, and yet I still feel relieved. I’m not crazy. I have to wonder, though; did he mean to leave the photo, or was this a mistake? Is he toying with the authorities, or is this and the murder of Peter Mellen proof that he’s making mistakes?
I have to keep hunting.
The Bric-a-Brac Man is out there. I am certain there are more yet more cases to be found, but I can determine no consistent pattern to the abductions. What I do know is that the time for research has passed. The Bric-a-Brac Man is growing bolder. He has resorted to violence and mockery in recent years. He considers himself untouchable, untraceable.
My work will prove otherwise. I have come to Queens University in Kingston, ON – the site of the most recent abduction. I am pursuing a PhD in Parapsychology, a disrespected field that has made me the laughingstock of my department. I don’t care. My search for the Bric-a-Brac Man is the centerpiece of my work here. Nothing else matters, so long as I find him.
I’ve become convinced that the time has come to take action. I have a plan in place – it’s risky, but every day I wait is another day he could strike. I’m not willing to condemn any more families to the fate mine suffered.
We always tell children that monsters aren’t real. It’s my duty to make it so.
I owe Katie that much.
Part Three of Twelve