I Went Looking For the Officer Whose Name Was Redacted

I didn’t go back to the attic right away.

Not after the album. Not after seeing him standing behind me in that photo from last Christmas. I’m still not sure what to believe. But my gut is telling me to worry. For a few days, I pretended everything was normal. I went to work, answered texts, and nodded through conversations. But every quiet moment, my mind drifted back to Daniel. To his journal. To the police report. To the single line that stuck with me more than anything else.

“Officer: [Redacted].”

The fact that the file, or rather what I assume was just a copy of the original file, had any information intentionally left out made it harder to explain away the oddities linked to Daniel’s case. Just a blank space where a name should have been. That officer was presumably the only one who had been inside that house after that incident. The only one to have seen it and written everything down. The only person who had walked through it, experienced that horrid basement. If anyone knew something, it was him. Well, him and maybe one other person.

Before I started searching for him, I went back to my grandmother’s house. It was her handwriting on those photos. Maybe she was oblivious to it all. Or maybe she knew something. If anyone in my family had answers, it should have been her. Part of me hoped she’d laugh and tell me I was overthinking things, that there was some simple explanation I hadn’t considered yet, and that I could go home and forget all of it. The other part of me knew better.

She answered the door with a quick smile and told me I should have called first before letting me in. Her house looked the same as always, clean and quiet, smelling faintly of tea and furniture polish. Nothing about it suggested decades of secrets sitting in boxes upstairs. We sat at the kitchen table while she poured tea. I watched her hands the whole time, steady as she poured. I tried to sound casual when I asked if she remembered Daniel. Her eyes flicked up to mine for just a second before she said, “Of course I do. Poor boy.” I told her I had found his journal in the attic. She paused as she set the teapot down and asked if I had read it. When I said yes and that it was upsetting, she nodded and said she was sure it was. I told her he had written about feeling watched, about people avoiding him, about strange things happening. She said that of course he had. That's what happens when people go crazy. She blamed everything on his mother. But the way she talked about it made everything seem normal.

When I asked what had happened to him after everything, she replied that he had been very ill and that some things didn’t heal properly. When I pressed her, she looked at me more closely than she had before. Her eyes moved over my face and posture, like she was quietly measuring something. She told me I looked tired. When I said I was fine, she hummed softly and said I had always been too sensitive for my own good. I asked if she had ever visited his house. She smiled and asked why she would have done that. Confused by her response, a realization hit me. I then asked her how Daniel and his mother were related to her; to me. Her smile seemed to waver for a second. She looked at me and told me that Daniel’s mother was her sister. I thought back to the date written on the photos of Daniel. That, combined with the police report, led me to believe that Daniel was born sometime around 1991. I was born in the year 2000, so I didn't see how Daniel’s mother could be anywhere near my grandmother's age.

I think she could sense the gears turning in my head. When I tried to confront her about this seemingly inaccurate information, she gently interrupted and said, “Some stories are heavy, dear one, and are not meant to be carried around.” I asked if there was anything I should know, and she reached across the table and squeezed my hand and told me I should take care of myself. That was all she gave me.

I left feeling worse than when I had arrived. Whatever she knew, she wasn’t going to share it. But she definitely knew something. That was when I stopped simply asking questions, and started searching on my own. My paranoia started growing. I knew something wasn't right and I wouldn't be able to move on until I found answers. My only other lead was that officer. He had to know something, and I had to find him.

I took off work for a few days so I could conduct proper research. I searched public records, court documents, and archived articles. I called offices, emailed departments, and left voicemails that were never returned. I sat in waiting rooms and got transferred between people who either couldn’t help me or wouldn’t. I posted on forums, messaged strangers, followed dead leads, and chased wrong names. Days turned to Weeks, passing without anything sticking. Every path either ended abruptly or circled back to sealed files. I started keeping notes of names, dates, and departments, just in case something finally connected.

Some nights I fell asleep with my laptop open. Other nights I couldn’t sleep at all. I was tired constantly. No matter how much I rested, it never felt like enough. Coffee stopped helping. My head ached most mornings, and I kept losing track of time without realizing it. During that period, my grandma called twice. The first time she asked how I was feeling and if I was eating and sleeping enough. The second time she told me she had made soup, the kind I liked when I was little, and said it was important to remember what keeps you going. I didn’t know what she meant, but it stayed with me.

Just as I was beginning to lose hope, I finally got a name through someone who used to work dispatch back then. She didn’t want to talk much and made it clear she wasn’t sure about the information, but it was enough to follow. That name led to a property record in a rural town two hours away. That was enough for me. I got in my car, and immediately drove to the address. The occupant was listed as fifty-three years old. But when I got there, and opened the door, he looked twice that.

His house sat at the end of a gravel road, surrounded by weeds and peeling paint. When he opened the door, my stomach dropped. His hair was thin and white, his skin sagged, his back was hunched, and his eyes were sunken. When I said his name, he flinched and asked how I had found him. After I explained why I was there, he studied me for a long moment before stepping aside and telling me to come in.

Inside, his house smelled like dust, old paper, and something faintly sour. Every mirror was covered. Not hidden. Covered. There were notebooks, files, and boxes stacked everywhere. He sat heavily in an armchair and said he had known this would happen eventually. I told him everything I knew. About Daniel. About the journal. About the attic. About the album. About the boy. I didn't care anymore. He listened without interrupting. Finally, after I had finished, he told me that Daniel’s house had never felt empty. He talked about the basement, the smell, the air, and the footprints. He had seen two sets leading throughout the house, even though only Daniel had been alive. He talked about the disturbing photos, how things didn't quite add up. And how he had left it alone for years before curiosity got the better of him.

He knew something was horribly wrong with Daniel, not just mental distress. He mentioned some other cases he had worked on that had gruesome and disturbing sites. They all felt wrapped up at the end. But as hard as he tried to forget the things he saw in Daniel’s house… he couldn't. He went looking for answers. That was when the headaches and nightmares started. That was when he began seeing things in reflections and hearing footsteps. He told me that was also when my grandmother came to see him. She had known his name and told him he was asking the wrong questions. She had said some things were kinder when left alone. After that, his life had fallen apart. He stopped sleeping, stopped seeing people, moved, and tried to disappear. It hadn’t worked.

That was when I noticed the photo on the table off to the right. I hadn't noticed it when I came in. I hadn't noticed it when I sat down. But once I did notice it, I couldn't stop staring at it. It showed the retired police officer, just as he had looked right then, sitting in front of me. It showed him in the same clothes, sitting in the same chair, with the same exact posture he now bore. And behind him, draping his small arm over the officer's shoulder, was the boy.

I kept staring at the photo, afraid to look away. I asked when the photo had been taken. He said it was from last year and that a close friend had taken it. After I absolutely knew I was staring too long, I turned back to him. He was smiling. It was subtle, but enough to be unsettling. “It's a good picture, isn't it?” He said, still smiling. I looked back to the picture and found myself chuckling nervously. “Uh, yeah. It really captures your good side.” I didn't know what else to say. While I was still looking at it, he said, in a low voice, “He likes it too.” My head shot back to the man and I saw a figure quickly poke its head out from behind him. It was him. It was the boy. And he was smiling.

I jumped to my feet and turned to leave, fast, immediately. But my body didn't move. I don’t know if it was fear or instinct, but something in me told me that moving would make things worse. I heard the man say, “Is everything ok? You look spooked.” He didn't say it in an evil way. He said it perfectly normal, in fact. Then I felt him grab my hand, hard. He told me to be careful, that I was closer than I thought. That was it. I yanked my hand free, sprinted out the door and drove away as fast as I could.

The only thought that crossed my mind as I drove was “Get. The fuck. Home.” When I did finally arrive home, it was dark, and it took me a minute to work up the courage to leave the assumed safety of my car. When I finally did, I bolted inside and locked the door, turned on all the lights, and shut all the blinds. I was at a loss. Insanity; was it real, or was actually losing my mind. No. I knew it was real. I knew I saw him, that he wasn't conjured by my brain. He was real.

I spent the rest of the night trying to calm down, as it began to rain. The start of a pretty big thunder storm. Most people find that ominous, but to me it helped. Thunder storms are cozy. They keep people, things, away. I finally began to calm down. My thoughts drifted back to my grandma. I knew I had to talk to her again, to demand answers. I knew I was in too deep at this point. So, I decided to go see her again in the morning. And this time, I wouldn't let her beat around the bush. I would get the answers I wanted. The answer I needed. No matter what.

As I finally settled down in bed and felt comfortable enough to turn out the lights, I checked my phone. That was a mistake. I should have just fallen asleep. I noticed a notification. I had received an email from a strange address that I didn't recognize. The subject read, “Closer Than You Thought.” There were no other words in the email, just an image file. The name of the file was just random numbers. I opened it. My blood ran cold, and my breathing stopped entirely. It was a picture of me, smiling, with the boy standing behind me. He was reaching out, so close as to just barely touch me. I didn't remember taking this picture. It was in my home, and I was alone in it. Then I looked closer at the name of the file, and that's when I realized it wasn't just random numbers. It was a date. Not a past date, but a future date. Two days ahead. I stared at it for a moment.

Then my phone rang. The name on the screen lit up in the dark.

Grandma.