Legends of Sugar Creek: The Journals of Jim Corrie, Part Twelve

​What follows has been edited for content and relevance to the ongoing investigation
into events in Sugar Creek, Ohio on the night of September 26-27, 2015. ​

​The following entries provide the heretofore missing information from Jim Corrie's journal, covering the period from June 3 to June 25, 2014. These were provided to BCI by Mr. Corrie's daughter Miranda during her interview on October 26, 2015. The postmark on the envelope in which the pages were sent indicates that they were mailed out on September 26, the day of the incident. There was no return address on the envelope, and Ms. Corrie states that she did not open the envelope or read the contents until October 20.

"I didn't know what it was at first," Ms. Corrie said in her interview. "It got tossed into the junk mail pile. Everything was so overwhelming - why would I notice it?  I was cleaning, purging my junk to take my mind off of things, and I found out what it was then. I don't know why he sent it like this."

The six pages comprising these entries are filled on both sides with cramped handwriting in blue and black ink. The illustrations, while small, are thoroughly detailed, and rendered in pencil. All entries address Dr. V_____.
​

June 3, 2014

I've got to admit, Doc: I'm kind of excited in spite of myself. Probably because I've got my battle music playing as I go over my questions for Carl Weaver. The Corries are serenading me with "Nancy Whisky," and I sorely wish it were later in the day so I could partake in some as I listen.  I'm sure Randi's regretting ever getting this for me now,  'cause it's kind of "my jam" these days.  (Randi would die of embarrassment on the spot if she ever knew I said "my jam," even ironically, and I kinda' hope she sneaks a peek at this sometime just to see her reaction!)

Rachel's...not a fan, and she's still asleep, so it's playing very low.

I have to be careful. I approached Carl as a local historian who discovered Jennifer's book and was interested in her source material (all true). I did not mention that I lived in his old house, or any of my other theories. I definitely did not mention his daughter. If there's a way for it to come up organically, I might bring it up.

​I should head out, but one of my favorites just started playing: "The Braes o' Killiecrankie." Song about a vicious battle between the English and the Scots during the Jacobite Rising of 1689 that was - naturally - a resounding win for the Scots. Swells my heart to hear it; I think I'll wait until it's done. 

June 3, 2014 - Later

Jesus. 

Jesus.

I'm in Dayton now. The interview's over. I stopped back at the cafe where it started, staring at my notes and trying to stop my brain from spinning.  I'm holding onto the table with one hand, afraid to let go. 

This is bad. This is really, really bad. 

Okay - pulling my shit together. Starting at the beginning. 

I'd brought a newspaper photo of Carl Weaver with his family as reference, but I almost didn't recognize him when I met him. When I realized who he was, I tried not to be visibly shocked, although the man seemed so deadened to anything around him I doubt he noticed. 

Doc, the man was so old. I mean, it's been almost thirty years, but I didn't expect him to look so...bad. Carl is fifty-six, only a little older than me (and I know I'm no specimen!), but he looked at least ten years older. Everything about him - the way he sat slumped in the chair, the way the flesh on his face sagged, how he looked at me with half-opened eyes - this was a man who looked half in his grave, waiting for someone to push him the rest of the way in. I've drawn the two versions of him below, side by side:
​

The Weaver Family, 1985.

Carl Weaver, 2013.

I'd like to think I recovered quickly, and we got to talking about the book. I showed him my copy, and told him (again, truthfully) that I was unable to find anything beyond the most basic details in any other source.

"I guess Jenny wasn't very forthcoming?" Carl said. "I'm not sure why she went ahead and published it. She never wanted to sell it or talk to anyone about it." 

I stared at him for a minute. He assumed I'd spoken to Jennifer? I chose not to correct him, and asked if he had access to any of her sources. 

"Yeah, I brought a few things," he said. He reached down and picked up a faded file folder, which he dropped on the table. "I don't have much; some random stuff that got mixed in with my things when I moved out. Not sure why I kept them." 

I opened the folder, and my eyes went wide. Sitting atop a small pile of ancient printouts was this photo:
​

"I took that one myself," Carl said. "Took it in the spring of '85. It was going to be her photo for the back cover. She was so excited about it, her first book. She actually had a real publisher at that point, not this fly-by-night vanity crap." He referred to the book on the table. "That was all before, though." 

I got a lump in my throat looking at it, Doc. The woman sitting on what would one day be my porch looked serene, confident, even optimistic. The day was bright, and the creek looked almost picturesque flowing in and out of frame behind her. The way the photo was oriented, she would have been looking straight into the woods. She was someone who had no idea what horrors they held, what sorrow they would bring her in just a few months' time. I both pitied and envied her for that. 

"Some of her source notes are there, too," Carl said. "Not much, like I said." He slowly rose to his feet and extended his hand. "Sorry you came all this way for so little." 

I asked him to wait. I asked him when he had last spoken to Jennifer himself. 

"We don't talk," Carl said. "I haven't spoken to her since the divorce."  He shrugged, a little pathetically. "It's not like we had to worry about child support or anything." 

I winced at that, and I seriously considered just leaving at that point. His daughter's death had destroyed his family, and was still destroying him. What possible good could I do dragging him back into hell like this?

But I had to know. I could feel myself getting close to a crucial truth about the Creek that I'd never find any other way. I pointed to the photo. 

"That's my house," I said.

Carl's eyes narrowed at me. "What do you mean, 'your house'?"

"I own it," I said. "Jennifer's not there anymore." 

"What, she sold it to you? She moved out?"

"No," I said. "I just bought it a year or so ago. I've never met your ex-wife." 

"So when did she leave?" Carl said. His voice was rising. This was the most animated I'd seen him. "Where did she go?" 

"No one knows," I said. "I don't know much more than that."  I could see that he wanted more than that anyway, so I took a deep breath and went on. "Bank records say she made the last mortgage payment in early 1990. They repossessed it later that year. From what I was able to gather, the door was wide open when they came to foreclose. Everything was there but her. I couldn't find anything saying there was even a search or missing person's report. For all I could tell - "

"The earth had swallowed her up,"  Carl said. His eyes were practically bulging, and a look of horror had reshaped his face. He grasped the arm of his chair for support. "Oh, God. Oh my God. It got her." 

My jaw dropped at this. Carl stumbled, and I reached out to steady him, but he lunged forward and grabbed my arm instead.

"You're not here about her book," he said.  "You've seen something." 

I just stared at him, blinking. I must have given him some sort of acknowledgement, because his grip on my arm tightened.

"Jenny saw something," he whispered. "And so did I. Come to my house. Now."