The eerie, flickering glow of a kerosene lamp, Matthew Larch followed his son�s footprints in the snow. They started at the kitchen door and extended some seventy-five feet from the house. There were no other marks on the freshly-fallen flakes.
����������� Young Oliver�s tracks just stopped. The oak water bucket he had carried lay on its side several yards to the left.
����������� Matthew Larch huddled under the dark sky with the small group of family and friends. Not a word passed among them. They listened intently, but could scarcely believe their senses.
����������� Oliver was crying, his voice growing fainter and fainter as he screamed for help � screamed from somewhere above them � in the black, cold sky.
����������� Then all was silent.
����������� Eleven-year-old Oliver Larch and his family had been in a festive mood that Christmas Eve of 1889. Good friends, including a local minister and his wife from nearby South Bend, had gathered with the Larch family to celebrate the holiday. Even out-of-town guests�an attorney from Chicago and a circuit judge�had joined the party. After a feast of roast duck and mice pudding, the guests moved into the parlor where Matthew sat down to play the pump organ. Carols drifted from the snug little farmhouse as the hour edge toward midnight.
����������� Meanwhile, young Oliver had popped corn, which everyone ate eagerly. Outside, the snow fell steadily until a fluffy new white blanket lay upon the frozen earth. Late in the evening, on a visit to the kitchen, Oliver�s father noticed that the water in the cistern was low. The dutiful boy quickly volunteered to bring in fresh water. He slipped on a pair of overshoes and a warm jacket before going out to the pump.
����������� A few seconds after he closed the door, a scream from the yard startled the happy gathering. Mr. Larch grabbed a lantern and raced outside. The rest of the group, including Oliver�s frantic mother, followed.
����������� Matthew Larch swung his lantern to and fro as he followed Oliver�s footprints. Though he could not see his son, the boy�s cries tore though him:
����������� �Help! They�re got me!� Matthew heard his son scream. �Help! Help me please!� Oliver�s voice issued from the empty sky.
����������� As everyone stared toward the leaden heavens, the terrified cries grew even fainter. They could see nothing: not a light, not an object and definitely not Oliver. Nor could they hear anything other than the boy�s cries, now almost inaudible. The child had been snatched from the face of the earth.
����������� Not able to believe it, Matthew Larch and several other men frantically searched the farmstead while the women led a distraught Mrs. Larch into the house. They found not a trace of the boy that night � nor any other night.
����������� A police investigation confirmed what the Larch family and their guests had seen and heard that cold winter evening. Oliver�s voice must have come from the sky for there was no other evidence to indicate he had been kidnapped or run away.
����������� Speculation abounded, but what investigations found most troubling was that there had been no sound, other than the boy�s screams, nor any lights in the inky blackness.
����������� It seemed as if Oliver had been carried upwards into the endless night by some unseen, demonic being. Preposterous? No one ever came forth with a better explanation. Oliver Larch had disappeared forever.