What day is it? What Month is it? Is it Tuesday? I can’t remember. I never can remember things like that, never the things that I want to.

Not that I have any sort of reference frame down here. Who knows how long it’s been since they locked me in this place. The only thing to keep me company is the wretched girl in the corner, blindfolded, gagged and ear plugged. She doesn’t even know who I am, or why I’m here- why I tried to rescue her�

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My name is Pola Jacobsen, a twenty-two year old private investigator. I never cared about the mysterious disappearance of Stacy Blue until the one year anniversary of her vanishing act. To be honest, I never really liked her. I hated her, really, considering how big of an arrogant snob she was, always referring to herself as the only teenaged detective worth mentioning, always treating me like dirt for being such a recluse. Dozens of times she snubbed me, those memories seared into my mind like everything else I’ve ever witnessed. Her and her hideous green wardrobe and faux wholesome appearance directly opposed my apathetic and grungy appearance, her sheen to my dirt.

Our differences weren’t just superficial. She used deduction, and I used my eidetic memory. I can’t blame her, really, for how could she appreciate the gift and curse that I bear without actually living it?

A perfect memory sounds nice to most people, I’ve been told, but I’d drop it in a heartbeat if I could. Basically, my mind takes a snapshot every few seconds and stores it in the world’s worst filing system. Memory isn’t about recording what you see, it’s about recalling, and I recall everything. It doesn’t matter how minute the detail, I’ll know. And I’ll think about it. And I’ll obsess about it.

With the media circus surrounding the one-year anniversary of Stacy’s disappearance, I couldn’t help but become interested, especially considering the reward that was offered by her father. I started the investigation at her house, where I had met her more than once when I had use of her deductive skills, or her of my memory. Mr. Blue let me in.

His look of disgust as he talked to me revealed his feelings for my physical appearance. I hadn’t washed my hair or changed my clothes in days, and I could feel my straight brown hair clumping together as I twirled it with my fingers incessantly. He too didn’t look nearly as good as when we last met, the loss of his only child clearly having damaged him in some irreparable way. He was a prim and proper prosecutor, after all, and the sight of such an uncouth woman like me must have startled him. I appreciated his kindness, however; he understood that I was possibly the best bet to discover the fate of his daughter. He showed me to her room and gave me complete access. The police had taken very little evidence, believing that none of it would be useful in their investigation, while he left everything where it stood, hoping for the return of Stacy.

The hideous green color scheme that covered the room hurt my eyes, and it still does to this day. Nothing I saw during the first twenty minutes triggered any sort of response, until I found her clipbook hidden beneath her bed, a memento of every case she ever solved.

The scope of the book impressed even me, the young detective having solved hundreds of cases while still a teenager. If she were alive, she would no longer be able to claim the title of Greatest Teen Detective’, but she would be remembered as such for decades. The first cases were small: arsons, blackmailing, and similarly inconsequential crimes. However, when she turned sixteen, she hit it big with the discovery of who killed Roger Lagoni. While Papa Corelli walked due to suspected jury tampering, Stacy still became well-known, continuing the streak until her disappearance years later.

As I flipped through the final year of her scrapbook, I noticed a lime green van sitting in the background of many photos of her accepting plaques, shaking the mayor’s hand, cutting the ribbon on a library, or even photographs that she herself had appeared to have taken during stakeouts- many had a beat-up looking van lingering off to the side or in the background. The car was certainly the same in each photograph, and I knew immediately that it was no mere coincidence. Whoever owned the van was stalking Stacy for at least two months prior to her disappearance.

One photo in particular revealed the license, setting off a cascade of memories as I realized exactly when and where I saw that same van. A small town, just across the border. Pilson, I remember it. I passed it on my way here. It was parked at the Louis Gas Station. I thanked Robert for his, hopped in my Desoto, and headed north.

Two hours later, I pulled into that gas station parking lot. No sign of the green van, which I didn’t expect to see anyways. Most vans don’t run out of gas in six hours.

I got out and filled the car’s tank. When I went in to pay, I struck up a conversation with the elderly station attendant, asking about the green van. The worker told me that two people show up in the car a few times a week, just filling up before heading back onto the road. I didn’t pry further, knowing that if I asked who they were, he might get suspicious.

If I waited long enough, the owners of the van would certainly show up. The problem was finding a place to watch from safely. On a lonely country road, a tail is easy to spot, especially when it is sitting by the side of the road until the mark passes.

I headed north several miles and stopped at a small motel, a tiny place on the same stretch of road as the gas station, uninterrupted by intermediate exits or side roads. If the van passed the gas station, I would see it, so as long as it didn’t approach from the South and then just go and turn around.

I spent seven days in that fucking motel room, staring out between the curtains with a pair of binoculars. They had to get gas sometime, I reasoned, but I didn’t expect they would take so damn long. What bothers me even more, however, is that they could have slipped by countless times during my short bathroom and sleep breaks.

When that van did roll down that highway, I ran out the door and hopped in my car, already facing the street. I followed, over half a mile behind, keeping a meticulously uniform distance between it and me. To my surprise, it took a sudden left and darted down a dirt road.

I slowed as I passed the dirt road. The van drove off into the distance, raising a cloud of dust in its wake; beyond, I could see an old farm house. I continued north.

Ten minutes later, I returned, and parked my car on the shoulder of the road a few thousand feet down the road. From there, I headed into the rows of corn, staying low as to not be seen in my approach.

The farm house looked almost exactly like the one from American Gothic, save a few minor details and horrid paint job. There was no way the resemblance was unintentional, unless it was older, which, but the looks of it, was a very real possibility. Parked at the base of the front porch sat the green van. From my vantage point among the stalks, I could see the outline of a man on the first floor. The silhouette disappeared into the back hallway, where it remained out of sight for over an hour. For the rest of the day, I watched in the weeds, seeing nobody but the man. Obviously, something of interest was in the basement, and I intended on finding out what it was. However, I had no intention of sneaking into the place with the man sleeping or awake. I would enter alone.

My opportunity came the following day when the man drove off in the van, leaving the house seemingly abandoned. I walked through the cornfield to the back of the house, looked around for any signs of security, then walked to the backdoor. The hinges squeaked, but the inner door was unlocked, and I entered the kitchen.

It looked to have been renovated at least once since the place was built. Green countertop, metal chairs, foldout table, all distinctly sixties. I saw the door to the basement and headed towards it.

The light switch did nothing, but I could see a needle of white light stretching across the basement floor. I descended the stairs slowly and quietly into the darkness and ducked my head down below the ceiling. The light came from a side room.