The Last to Vanish
Megan Miranda
For my family
A NOTORIOUS HISTORY
These are the relevant statistics of Cutter’s Pass, North Carolina: The town covers roughly four square miles of a valley, tucked against the base of a mountain ridge. Its main economy is tourism, due to the proximity of an access point to the Appalachian Trail. The most recent census puts the population at just over 1,000 permanent residents. Six visitors have gone missing in the last twenty-five years. As a result, some have called it the most dangerous town in the state.
Here’s what the people of Cutter’s Pass want you to know: It’s a picturesque valley, named almost a century earlier for a path through the nearby mountains, which had proven historically difficult in the winter. Yes, they’ve had a string of bad luck with the missing visitors, but there’s nothing particularly dangerous about the area now. The disappearances are just coincidence. Statistics, even. Twenty-five years, just a few incidents.
It’s easy to believe, if you want. It’s just as easy to disbelieve. But whichever person you are, believer or disbeliever, Cutter’s Pass welcomes you equally.
The truth is—
PART 1
Landon West
Date missing: April 2, 2022
Last seen: Cutter’s Pass, North Carolina
The Passage Inn
AUGUST 3, 2022
CHAPTER 1
HE ARRIVED AT NIGHT, in the middle of a downpour, the type of conditions more suitable for a disappearance.
I was alone in the lobby—removing the hand-carved walking sticks from the barrel beside the registration desk, replacing them with our stash of sleek navy umbrellas—when someone pushed through one of the double doors at the entrance. The sound of rain cascading over the gutters; the rustle of hiking pants; the screech of wet boots on polished floors.
A man stood just inside as the door fell shut behind him, with nothing but a black raincoat and some sob story about his camping plans.
Nothing to be afraid of: the weather, a hiker.
I was only half listening at first, his request buried under a string of apologies. I’m so sorry, I’m usually more prepared than this and I know this is a huge inconvenience but—
“We can get you taken care of,” I said, making my way behind the desk, where I had the room availability list already pulled up on the single computer screen. This was the type of rain that drove hikers off the mountain—sudden and fierce enough to shake their resolve, when they’d give a second thought to their gear, their stamina, their will. Unlike him, I had been ready for this.
The back of our property ended where the local access trail began: It was marked by a small wooden sign leading day hikers on a path to the falls, but the trail then continued on in a steep ascent, pressing upward until it ultimately collided with the great Appalachian beyond. Our guests loved the convenience, the accessibility, that touch of the wild—the mountain looming, so close, from the other side of their floor-to-ceiling windows.
From the ridge of that mountain, at the T intersection of the two trails, I knew, you could see us, too: the dome of the inn, and the town just beyond, with the steeple of the church pushing up through the treetops; the promise of civilization. Sometimes, on nights like this, they spilled down the mountain like ants scurrying out of a poisoned mound, searching for a place of last resort. Our lights drawing them closer, the first sign of respite off the trail.
Sometimes if there was only one room, strangers would join forces and bunk up, in the spirit of things.
Right now, it was high season and we were booked solid in the main building, but three of the four outside cabins were vacant. The accommodations out there were more rustic, mainly used for either long-term stays or purposes such as this.
The man was still standing on the far side of the lobby, hands cupped in front of his mouth, as if the storm carried a chill. I saw his gaze flick to the freestanding fireplace in the center of the room. “You’re going to have to come a little closer to check in,” I said.
He laughed once and lowered the hood of his raincoat as he crossed the lobby, shaking out his hair, and then his arms, in an uncannily familiar gesture. I felt my smile falter and tried to cover for it with a glance toward the computer screen, running through the possibilities. A return visitor. Someone I’d seen in town earlier this week. Nothing. Coincidence.
“Here we go,” I said, turning my attention his way again, hoping the sight of him so close would trigger a memory, place him in context: brown hair halfway between unkempt and in style; deep-set blue eyes; somewhere in his thirties; no wedding ring; the sharp line of a white scar on the underside of his jaw, which I could only see because he was a solid head taller. I imagined him falling during a hike, hands braced for impact, chin grazing rock; I imagined a hockey stick to the face, helmet dislodged, blood on ice.
I did this sometimes, imagined people’s stories. It was a habit I was actively trying to break.
I was sure I knew him from somewhere, but I couldn’t place it, and I was usually good at this. I remembered the repeat visitors, could pull a name from three years earlier, recognizing those who’d gotten married or divorced, even, changing names and swapping partners. I paid attention, kept notes, filed away details. The stories I imagined for them sometimes helped.