On Christmas Eve of 1945, the Sodder family home in Fayetteville, West Virginia went up in flames. While both parents and four of the children made it out, five children were still inside.
George tried to rescue his children but was hindered at every turn. The phone wasn’t working, the ladder was missing from its normal spot, and George’s truck would not start. One of the Sodder children who made it out raced to a neighbor’s house to call emergency services. Tragically, the fire department was low on able-bodied men due to WWII. They didn’t arrive until the following day, by which point the Sodder home was a smoldering wreck.
Related: Up in Smoke: The Sodder Children Disappearance of 1945
Authorities determined an electrical fire caused the blaze—despite George recently having the wiring re-done and the local electric company stating it was safe. Strangely, the remains of the children did not turn up in wreckage; investigators suggested the fire was so hot, it burned up the bodies. Circumstances leading up the house fire only complicated the mystery. George was a vocal critic of Italian dictator Benito Mussolini, to the distaste of local Italian community. In the days before the fire, the Sodders were visited by two men—a life insurance salesman and a man seeking work—both of whom warned Sodder to be careful of his home catching on fire.
In the wake of the fire, it was discovered the the Sodder family’s phone line had actually been cut, and the ladder was discarded at the base of a nearby embankment. Reports then came in of seeing the five Sodder children the next day at a diner. Years later, Sodder matriarch Jennie received a letter with no return address. Inside was a photo of a grown man who looked just like one of her missing sons with his name written on the back.
Out of respect to the Sodder family’s grief, I’ve changed the name for the story, also changing the location to Arkansas. Other than the blurb above, this story is completely fictional.
Prologue
Christmas Eve, 1945
The match snapped to life with a hiss, its tiny flame trembling in the December wind. He cupped his hand around it, shielding it from the cold night air, before touching it to the twisted roll of newspaper soaked in kerosene. The paper caught fast, orange and hungry, licking upward with the greed of something long starved.
He crouched near the side of the Simpson home, the wooden boards dry and ready. Behind him, the Appalachian hills lay silent, draped in snow, a deceptive peace that muffled every sound except the crackle of the fire beginning to take root.
“Quick now,” the other man muttered, eyes darting to the house where lights still burned in the windows. Shadows of children moved across the curtains—playing, laughing, waiting for Christmas morning.
The arsonist swallowed hard, a bitter taste rising in his throat. He forced himself to look away. Don’t think of them as children. Think of them as a message.
It wasn’t about the children. Not really. It was about their father. George Simpson, a man too loud, too bold, too unafraid to spit on Mussolini’s name when others still whispered it with reverence. George had refused to buy protection. He’d sneered at the insurance man’s warning. Tonight, George Simpson would pay.
The first flames kissed the siding, spreading in a lazy crawl that would soon become a furious sprint. The man wiped sweat from his brow despite the cold. Everything had been arranged: the ladder tossed down the embankment, the phone line cut, the trucks crippled. No one would be able to save them in time.
From the back of the house, a soft cry rose. One of the smaller children called for a brother. The arsonist’s hand shook. He almost dropped the matchbox.
“Keep moving,” the other man hissed, shoving a heavy armful of fuel-soaked rags against the wall. “You want to end up like Simpson? Keep moving.”
A window creaked open upstairs. For a moment, the man froze, heart hammering. A child’s face appeared, his eyes wide, frightened. The boy looked straight at him, as if he could see into the man’s soul.
The arsonist yanked the brim of his cap lower, turned his face away. Don’t think. Don’t look. The boy’s head disappeared back into the darkness.
The fire roared suddenly, climbing fast. Smoke coiled into the night sky. Behind him, headlights flicked once, the signal. A black sedan idled at the edge of the road.
It was time.
“Bring them,” the other man ordered.
The arsonist climbed the porch steps, boots heavy on the wood. He pushed the door open just enough to slip inside, heat already thick in the hallway. The children’s voices rose, confused, frightened. One reached for his hand without hesitation, trusting. He gathered them quickly, steering them out the back before the flames devoured the house.
Outside, the sedan’s trunk gaped open like a hungry mouth. The children were lifted, hushed, loaded inside. One of them sobbed, another clutched a blanket tight. The arsonist shut the lid with trembling hands, his ears ringing with the sound.
The house blazed now, an inferno painting the night. He backed away, chest heaving, the fire’s heat on his face. From the road, the other man lit a cigarette, smoke curling calm and cruel.
“Consider the message delivered,” he said.
The arsonist turned, unable to look at the house any longer. He tried to silence the echo of small voices in the dark but knew he never would.
- Publisher : Winged Publications
- Publication date : October 14, 2025
- Language : English
- Print length : 267 pages
- ISBN-10 : 196879235X
- ISBN-13 : 978-1968792350