The dog was barking from inside. He heard footsteps, the front door opening, the commotion of his mom and dad hurrying down the steps. Jim realized he was still screaming, and that reminded him of the beast. He scrabbled for both halves of his glasses and held them before his eyes. Nothing. He scanned the front yard, the quiet suburban houses, the mailboxes, the flower beds, the sprinklers. There were no monsters, but at his feet he saw something else.

It was a bronze medallion connected to a rusty chain. It was engraved with a foreboding crest: a hideous, snarling face; indecipherable markings of a savage language; and a magnificent long-sword across the bottom. Jim’s sobs caught in his chest and he reached out for it.

“Jim! What’s wrong?”

It was his mom, falling to her knees beside him, brushing dirt clods from his ears. His dad came next, kneeling in front of him, taking him by the knee and shaking it to focus Jim’s attention. They were saying his name, over and over: Jim. How horrible it was that no one would call him “Jimbo” ever again.

“Buddy, look at me,” his dad said. “You all right? You okay? Buddy?”

“Where’s your brother?” His mother’s hoarse whisper suggested that she somehow knew. “Jim, where is Jack?”

Jim did not respond and instead leaned to the side to see past his dad. The imprint in the grass was still there, but the medallion was gone, if it had ever been there in the first place. He felt a strange sense of sadness at its absence and an even more powerful sense of failure. He collapsed into his parents’ arms, crying, shuddering, and knowing that he had now experienced the nature of true fear, the pain of true loss.

Jim Sturges was my father. Jack Sturges was my uncle. The story I just told you I wouldn’t learn myself until forty-five years later, when I was fifteen. It was then I learned that Uncle Jack was the very last kid to disappear in the Milk Carton Epidemic, which ended as quickly as it had begun. The destroyed Sportcrest became a family relic; I’ve seen it a hundred times. It was also when I was fifteen that I learned how my dad spent the following decades, all of his youth and most of his adulthood, visiting the Holland Transit Bridge at night with flashlight in hand, searching for clues as to what happened to his older brother. There was never a trace of Jack aside from the milk cartons that would depict his brave, smirking face along with the word MISSING.

What a perfect way to describe my dad in the years to come.

Contemporary accounts state that the historic and decisive Battle of the Fallen Leaves took place in the final two minutes of the fourth quarter on Harry G. Bleeker Memorial Field at San Bernardino High, with our beloved Saint B. Battle Beasts up by only six points and our starting quarterback out with a concussion. It was then, during the most important game of the year, and there, upon that dewy sod, that a brave hero fell and an unexpected victor arose. To this day, tales from that night fuel the bedtime stories and dreams of children of all ages—human or otherwise. So read carefully these pages you hold. Go ahead, believe every word. After all, you may one day want to tell this story to your own kids.