I recently got a hold of a black box log from a friend of mine. I reviewed it yesterday, and found it to be quite disturbing. I'm replacing the actual names from the log with "Pilot" and "Control"
Pilot: Today is February 23, 1956. Weather looks cloudy, with a bit of storms. This is N29387, Control, do you read me?
Control: Loud and clear pilot, so uh, how's the wife and kids?
Pilot: They're good, how's Margret?
Control: -inaudible- fine.
Pilot: Hold on for one second, Control, there's a strange aircraft following me.
Control: What was that?
Pilot: I said -inaudible- aircraft, that's been tailing me for some time, I'm going to try to make contact via radio.
Control: Alright, standing by.
Pilot: -Indistinct sounds heard in background-
Pilot: -dull whooshing sound heard-
Pilot: Control, do you read?
Pilot: There's been a minor delay in travel, and we're going to make an unexpected stop in Davenport.
Control: What? No, you're supposed to head straight to Kingston.
Pilot: -inaudible- Sorry. There's been some delay. We have to make a stop in Davenport.
Control: But that town's been deserted due to radiation, just stop at Paxton, it's closer anyways.
Pilot: No, I need to go to Davenport.
Control: Seriously -inaudible- to Davenport, just go to Paxton.
Pilot: Standby, control.
The radio cut off at this point. I decided to do some research on the plane by searching its serial number, N29387. Apparently, the plane was found just east of Davenport, but the pilot couldn't be found. After 4 weeks of looking, the search was called off, and the pilot was declared dead.
The main reason I was so interested in this was because I used to live in Davenport, before a power plant nearby had an explosion, and the town had to be evacuated due to radiation.
I remember, though, as a child growing up there, I hated the town. It always freaked me out a bit.
I guess what scared me most was the old abandoned house just outside of town. I'd hear stories of a witch living there, who'd eat any kid that entered the building. In retrospect, I don't know why I believed that tale. Of course, when I was about 16 or 17, someone really did go missing in that house. His name was Jim Houston and he ran a small shop.
One day, he and his son were playing baseball, and the ball went into the house. Naturally, the kid was scared to go in, so he asked his dad to do it. So Jim went in the house to get the ball. His son must have been waiting at least 10 minutes before he started to realise something wasn't right here. That's when he went to get the closest person for help. And who was that person? Me.
Jim's son walked up to me and I could tell he was kind of panicky. So I asked him what was bothering him. He told me his dad went in to the house, and he still wasn't out yet. So I decided to help out the kid.
I went up to the house and I tried yelling for Jim. No answer. Finally, I mustered the courage to enter in, and look for him myself. All I could find was his baseball cap laying on the bed, covered in dust, as if it had been there for decades. I haven't talked about that day until now, with you.
So, I decided to take a trip to Davenport, to look for the pilot; I knew the town better than anyone else anyways. I first checked the wreckage of the plane, then the building of what used to be Jim's shop. I even checked Tom's Diner, before checking what used to be my house.
It's strange how much desertion can change a town. The last place I checked was the old house, just outside of town.
And then I saw it.
I saw an aviator hat, laying on the bed and covered in a thick coat of dust.