The noise came from beneath her bed. Fearing a monster, Alice grabs her teddy bear, willing it to keep her safe.

“Mommy! ” Alice cries, but her mother doesn’t respond. She squeezes the teddy bear tighter.

Then Alice hears footsteps coming to her door. The noises from under the bed suddenly grow quiet as her mother’s drunk boyfriend enters the room.

As he approaches Alice, two large hairy hands with ragged claws, reach out, grabbing him by the ankles. Screaming, the boyfriend’s dragged beneath the bed.

Soon, from under Alice’s bed, a soft voice whispers, “You’re safe from the monster, now.”

“Are you crazy?” Mary Sargent’s daughter pleaded, “Don’t get in the car with him!”

That was February 12, 1987 – the last time anyone would see her again. Within hours she’d be reported missing as the man driving the car, with whom Mary had an abusive relationship, would return to the Reno-Sparks Indian Colony (RSIC) alone.

This same man would reportedly borrow a garden hose from his neighbor and as that neighbor watched, he would rinse out the interior of his car. Information like this led nowhere and eventually the same man would be shot to death by a RSIC police officer after he violently attacked the officer.

Mary Sargent’s story though isn’t a singular one.

In 2016, North Dakota alone had 125 cases of missing women reported to the National Crime Information Center. This statistic and others like it are known to be under-reported and may range into the many thousands.

Of these 125 reported cases, most can be connected to the oil fields. These same U.S. oil fields are generally protected by private security firms, who operate under the watchful eye of the Department of Homeland Security.

Unfortunately, few have been fully investigated with reason’s being ‘lack of funding,’ ‘under-staffing,’ ‘no evidence of foul-play,’ or ‘no body, no crime.’ The majority of women who vanish and whose remains are found, are so highly desiccated and victims of deprivation, that no identifications can be made of the person and they are then buried as ‘Jane Doe’ followed by a serial number.

In Canada, the problem is far worse, with estimates ranging from 1,000 to nearly 4,000 Indigenous women having gone missing or murdered. And again, the numbers are very low due to under-reported cases as Canada does not maintain a database for missing people, which makes it difficult to figure out the rate at which Indigenous women go missing and found murdered, or to even compare information between populations.

Although Indigenous women and girls make up only four-percent of the female population in Canada, they represented 16-percent of all female homicides in Canada between 1980 and 2012. A 2007 study by the province of Saskatchewan – the only one to have systematically reviewed its missing persons files for cases involving Indigenous women – these women were found to make up six-percent of the population, but 60-percent of their missing and murdered women cases.

As for Mary – few to no records exist, as her disappearance was and continues to be considered a ‘very low priority.’ According to Mary’s family, Bureau of Indian Affairs investigators told them two things at the time: ‘she’s an adult and because of her life-style she can disappear if she wants,’ and ‘she’s one less Indian we have to worry about.’

The last time anybody saw Mary, she was wearing a white cotton blouse with ruffles on the shoulders, Levi 501 blue jeans and a pair of light blue and white Reebok tennis shoes. Sadly, that’s pretty much all the information the one official report holds; not her height, weight, age, distinguishing features or even a photograph.

Lastly, where ever she lays, for over three-decades, Mary has had no one to sing her funeral song. It’s time to change this.

It was a conversation I wasn’t supposed to overhear, but the man doing the talking and laughing was loud and not paying very much attention to his surroundings as he spoke to the few camp-followers he had in tow. It happened during the invocation on Sunday, the final day of the Numaga 2018 Pow Wow.

We were seated in the media-only section and had I been working as a reporter, I would quizzed Nevada Gubernatorial candidate Steve Sisolak on some of his platform positions. But I was there as a guest of the Hungry Valley Indian Reservation as an event photographer – meaning the Pow Wow participants were my main focus.

“Yeah, of course he wouldn’t be here,” Sisolak scoffed, “he only hangs out with the rich.”

He laughed, as did his four-person entourage. He was talking about his primary competitor, Adam Laxalt.

This happened during the invocation, where much of the crowd was silent and reverent. Furthermore, someone said this is a long prayer, to which Sisolak stated, “She’s long winded when she’s invited to speak at the legislature, too.”

Unable to hear the because of the ongoing interruption, he had to be ‘shushed’ twice, including once by me. Very little was said after that and the candidate and his group left the event shortly afterwards.

A few minutes later, I was introduced to Wes Duncan, who is running for Attorney General of Nevada. He was talking with a small group of people and we were discussing his opponents recent bad press.

Aaron Ford was arrested four times in Texas in the 1990s for public intoxication, stealing tires and twice for failing to appear in court. He also fell behind or ignored paying over $185-thousand dollar to the IRS between 2010 and 2014.

“I don’t hold what happened in the 90’s against him, but the unpaid taxes…” Duncan derided Ford.

“Personally, what happened in the 90’s goes towards character — which is important,” I interrupted, “but I can forgive the guy about not paying his taxes on time – after all, taxation’s theft since they’re not using that money the way the U.S. Constitution says it should be used.”

“Well,” changing the subject ever so slightly, Duncan replied, “taxes pay for services and salaries.”

Though he didn’t know it, he made my point for me about the unconstitutional misuse of our taxes, so nothing more could be said. Eventually, he and his aide-de-camp left the Pow Wow, for parts unknown.

At first, the sudden appearance of the goddess Bastet frightened the retired Professor of Egyptology. Her lithe body and cat-like head were beyond anything he’d seen in the natural world.

The old man knew Bastet to be a guide and helper to the dead, therefore he was certain that death was upon him. So he quietly set aside his tea and book, closed his eyes and announced, “I’m ready.”

However, nothing happened. After waiting a few seconds more, he opened his eyes and saw that the goddess had become distracted, having curled herself into an open and empty cardboard box.

We were practically side-by-side all the way into town on Pyramid Highway. The newer Subaru was slightly ahead and that’s how I came to seeing the nine-year-old boy in the back seat on the passenger side of the car.

Try as I might, I did my best not to look over at him, because every time he did, he’d stick his tongue out at me or mouth what appeared to be an obscenity. Fortunately, his mother, the car’s driver, was aware that her child was misbehaving as every time she spoke his head and eyes would snap forward.

Each time he suddenly grew ‘innocent’ was but a temporary respite as his mother’s attention would eventually return to the road and away from him. Then it got worse — he rolled down his window.

As we began to slow for the red-light at Disc Drive, the child stuck his right pointer finger up his left nostril and withdrew a long, yellow-green booger. He then flicked it out the window and onto my truck.

His mother, ever observant of his poor behavior, turned and began thrashing the boy with what looked to be a lone beach sandal. I could hear her screaming at him and he crying as the light turned green and I continued with the flow of traffic.

Looking back in my rearview mirror, I saw, some ten or eleven car lengths behind, that the kid was still catching hell from mom, who, sick of his bad behavior, was still stopped at the light, blocking traffic. I know it’s bad form, but I laughed maniacally at the sight of his being beaten, while I drove to the nearby car wash on McCarran Blvd. to clean his nastiness from my truck.

“What the eff is that?” I mumble to myself as I continue to trudge up the game trail. I can’t help but scout around to see if there’s anybody – or perhaps, simply a body, dead — anywhere about.

Thankfully, there isn’t. And I can’t help wonder aloud, “How in the hell do you lose something like this out in the middle of nowhere?”

Puzzled, I scan the horizon in all directions back to where I’m standing. There’s absolutely nothing out in the vastness of this shadow-cast landscape, besides a few wild Mustang and a couple of Pronghorn Antelope, that says ‘man has been here.’

My mind quickly recalls the scene of the empty coke bottle, found by the hunter, after being tossed from an airplane in the 1980 movie, “The Gods Must Be Crazy,” as I look towards the wide-open blue sky above me. “Candid Camera,” also flashes into my thoughts, yet I doubt anyone would go to such extreme lengths to try a capture a person’s reaction to such a sight some 40 miles from civilization.

Besides, the desert’s too damned hot this time of year to spend a bunch of time and money hoping someone will traipse up a singular trail, one that looks and feels like so many others in the nearby canyons. So, after picking it up (its heavier than it looks) and reviewing it for any identification, I head back the half-mile or so to my truck, parked at the trail-head, with the awful knowledge that I’m going to have to explain how and where it was found, to people who are by nature, skeptical of such odd discoveries.

“Damn it,” I complain, “I never seem to find anything good — it’s always weird shit like this prosthetic leg.

 

Sleep never came easily to Manny. To combat it, he could often be found taking lonely walks at all hours of the night or morning.

Oddly, one of the more comforting places he would visit in the dark was the century-and-a-half old Hebrew Cemetery, nearby on Angel Street above the University of Nevada, Reno. There was something about the place that calmed his soul.

Other times, he could be seen wandering the sidewalks of Virginia Street. Where and when he walked, he let his body decide, allowing his mind the pleasure of following along.

One late evening as he slipped quietly between the headstones of the cemetery,  a large, ungainly figure accosted him. Without a word of warning, he picked the smaller man up and tossed him, as one would a rag-doll over the wrought-iron fencing, before disappearing into the shadows.

Shaken, but uninjured, Manny quickly got to his feet and rushed around the outside of the cemetery and re-entered, intent on challenging whoever it was that had manhandled him. Angry, he shouted, “Come and face me fairly, you cowardly son-of-a-bitch!”

A long shadow cast itself over the headstones and came to rest at Manny’s feet. He followed it with his eyes, until he saw the man-shaped thing standing slightly outside the light of the overhead street lamp.

Frightened, Manny backed out of the cemetery and retreated to his apartment hoping for safety. Over the next two nights, he refused to go out after dark and often saw the large thing, looming in the darkened distance, watching him, waiting.

After some Internet research, Manny realized what he’d encountered and now he had to devise a way to defeat it. That morning, he rushed to the grocery store and purchased two large, red apples.

Come the evening of that third night, Manny acted on his knowledge; he slipped out his bedroom window and down to the street. He knew of a vacant building being renovated on South Virginia, where a face-off could take place.

It was an elderly building, built during the early years of Reno, once used as a car dealership for the Dodge Brothers. Long abandoned, it was soon to become a restaurant and anchor location for the up-and-coming Midtown district of the ‘Biggest Little City.’

Manny applied pressure to the backdoor of the building, pushing it in to make entry. There, he found a cardboard box and set it on end, placing the two apples on it.

He waited for darkness to fall, knowing the man-thing would eventually track him down. It wasn’t a long wait.

Though very large and heavy, the figure moved both quietly and quickly through the doorway and stood before Manny, his upturned box and the apples. “Because this building has the sign of the Hebrew on it, it will not stop me,” it whispered in a gravelly voice.

Surprised, Manny said, “I had know idea you could speak. And the sign is only symbolic.”

“There is much I can do, that you would not know about,” the man replied.

“So why are you following me?”

“You have trespassed where you are not wanted.”

“I’ve walked around that cemetery many times, so why now?”

“I do not care for ‘why,’ only that I obey my master. You must obey, too.”

“Whose’s your master?”

“He is dead. I can no longer speak his name. I do his bidding.”

“Maybe you can explain this as we share some these apples I brought as a peace-offering.”

“I will gladly eat, but it will bring no peace.”

“And why’s that?”

“It has been so directed and I must obey.”

“What must you do.”

“Put trespassers to death.”

“Very well, but first, eat.”

Manny could feel the fear pulsing through his entire body as he handed one of the apples to the man-thing. Next, he picked up the remaining apple and took a bite of it, encouraging the other to do the same.

To his astonishment, the man-thing placed the entire fruit in his mouth and swallowed. Meanwhile, Manny quietly chewed his bite.

“You have tricked me!” the figured growled a second before crumbling to dust.

Amid the dust was the uneaten apple. On one side of it, the Hebrew letters, aleph, mem and tav were neatly carved, with a slash struck through the letter ‘aleph.’

As Manny swept up the remains, taking it to the dumpster outside, he reviewed his findings: the three letters together mean ‘truth,’ but without ‘aleph,’ the word became ‘death.’  And while he knew some Golem could speak, he could find nothing in the Torah or other related manuscripts that showed the mud figure was overly intelligent.

As Manny walked towards home, he concluded that nearby or not, he’d have to find another place to frequent besides his favorite cemetery. “Too dangerous.”

When he first entered the opening, Aaron surely knew which way was up. He also had a certainty that he could find his way back, especially after he located the stairwell leading downward.

Somehow though, between the heaviness of the air and the extreme darkness, Aaron realized he was confused. He stopped, trying to gather his senses, and to make a decision: continue down or head upward.

Finally, decision made, Aaron turned back the way he had come, and yet he felt he was still going deeper into the hole. “This is what becomes of chasing white rabbits,” he complained.

 

The clever Herr Johann Duerr had the art of the sale down to a science; wait a day after the latest attack and show up in town with the remedy. In this case, Vampire Killing Kits.

Not only did his kit come with Holy Water, a Bible, a large crucifix and smaller rosary bead set, it included a thick pre-sharpened wooden stake, and cloves of Eastern European garlic, with seeds for starting one’s own garlic patch on the kitchen window sill.  It was also portable, making it even more desirable to a potential buyer.

“Das trick ist to arrive at der highest point ov fear, und offer ein solution,” he once told a fellow door-to-door salesman, who specialized in Fuller Brushes. “In dis line ov verk, das must find ein gimmick to help sell das goots, ja?”

From town to town he moved, seeming to know where the next ‘gruesome and unholy’ death would take place. Then Herr Duerr would go about the neighborhood and ply his trade with ease.

Then came the Internet — and then came the change in sales tactics. Gone were the day’s of Herr Duerr’s knocking door-to-door; now all he needed do was take world-wide sales request’s from vampire enthusiasts and email fear-filled household’s with targeted campaigns featuring pictures, descriptions and the prices of his line of six ‘life saving’ kits, which all came with a 90-day satisfaction ‘or your money back’ guarantee.

“Tank you, Mister Bram for das help,” he’d often snicker as he counted the day’s receipts, which included names and addresses. “You haff created a myth das ist so untrue das ist laughable und zoon ein vill prove miene point.”

He knew that the fear of another attack, a young woman, dead, drained of her life-essence, would add to the value of his personalized Vampire Killing Kit. This, and the fact that he was also the cause of these fears, meant that the clever Herr Johann Duerr – a vampire by night and intrepid Internet entrepreneur by day – never once failed to meet his personal quota in over 120-years.

A few weeks before the tearing down of the Nevada Hereford Ranch barn and other outbuildings in Spanish Springs, Nevada, I decided to go exploring the buildings that weren’t locked. In one of the outbuildings I found the remains of a wooden wing frame, a throwback to when the National Reno Air Races were held in the area and not at the airport in Stead, Nevada. I don’t think anyone thought to salvage the wing for history’s sake.