Chapter 1

Do you know how many pieces of luggage are checked onto flights each year? I’m talkin’ in the whole world. It’s 4 billion.

I’ll say that again.

4 billion.

And of those 4 billion, do you know how many pieces of luggage are lost, damaged or otherwise ‘mishandled’ by airline personnel in the good ol’ US of A?

2 million.

Won’t repeat myself again, but that’s still a lot. And while most of those suitcases and rollers are eventually reunited with their rightful owners, there’s still over 20,000 pieces of luggage that go unclaimed each year. Not to mention bags left on buses, on trains, in taxis or hotel rooms.

Ok, last question.

Where do you think all that lost luggage ends up? Most folks couldn’t tell you, but when you're a kid growing up in northeastern Alabama, you know exactly where it goes.

The Unclaimed Baggage Center.

Around Scottsboro, we just call it Unclaimed Baggage.

Every year, thousands of customers pass through our doors looking for deals on clothes, electronics, jewelry, and just about anything else you can imagine. Before any of that stuff reaches the sales floor, though, it comes through us.

I work in intake.

When a truckload comes in, we're the first people to touch it. We unload the bags, log ‘em, sort ‘em, and decide what can actually be sold.

Most bags are boring. Sure, you’ll get the occasional wedding dress or taxidermied squirrel, but really it’s just lots of clothes and chargers. I say ‘most bags’ because some bags get flagged, and not because of drugs or weapons. Because they contain things no one can explain.

Ask anybody in intake.

They'll have a story.

My girl Tammy found a passport from a country that doesn't exist. The Republic of Vir. It had a flag and everything.

Cody swears on his mama that the same blue Samsonite shows up every year around Christmas. Not the same model. The same suitcase. Same cracked handle. Same missing wheel. Same four-leaf clover sticker peeling off the side. Last year it was full of ladies’ wigs. Year before, empty picture frames.

Cody’s a nut, though. He moved away after the thing with the postcards.

My story?

My story started with Flight 702.

Well, it started with a suitcase actually. I didn’t find out about the flight until later.

It was July. Humid. The kind of weather where your shirt’s sticking to your back before you even finish your coffee.

I was working the receiving dock when the truck backed into Bay 4. The driver, Trey, was a buddy from back in the day and, unfortunately, an Auburn fan. While we unloaded, I took the opportunity to remind him the Tigers didn’t stand a chance against ‘Bama that year. Then I rolled the first pallet of suitcases inside.

For each bag, the process was always the same. Assign a lot number, slap a sticker on the side, then line it up all nice and pretty-like for the next guy. And that’s what I was doing when I noticed the bag.

It was a roller. Seafoam green.

Looked like a kid’s bag.

But I’d seen a million of those.

What really caught my eye was the condition it was in. Beat to hell. Like a pack of wolves had used it as their own personal piñata. Deep gouges ran all the way down one side and dark rust-colored stains coated the wheels.

Now, airlines damage luggage all the time. This wasn’t that.

I tried the zipper. It was crusted shut, so I grabbed the cutters from my workstation, busted a new seam and pried the bag open. At first it looked like standard-issue kids’ fare.

Books. Pajamas. A stuffed unicorn.

And a camera.

A cheap-looking, unicorn-themed digital camera, to be exact.

I found the power button and turned it on.

You may think I was being nosy, and that’s fair. But you'd be amazed how many times we're able to reunite a bag with its owner because of some tiny detail in a family photo or, hell, a name scribbled inside a coloring book.

Plus, I am nosy.

Back to the camera:

The first image was of a young girl smiling a gap-toothed smile straight into the lens. Couldn’t have been more than eight.

The next, taken from the backseat of a car, showed a middle-aged couple in the front seats, eyes on the road ahead. The mom looked annoyed. The dad looked lost.

The next three were of nothing in particular. A shoe. A passing billboard. The roof of the car.

The sixth picture was of an airport.

The girl stood next to an old sedan filled with luggage, a unicorn backpack slung jauntily over one of her shoulders. A giant glass and concrete terminal loomed behind her.

She looked almost impossibly happy.

“Cheeeese,” said a voice beside me.

It was Brian, one of the new guys, striking a ridiculous pose for the camera. He had already earned a reputation around the store as a complete goof.

I pantomimed snapping a pic of him, then looked at the screen.

“Sorry. Says too ugly.”

“Ha, ha,” he said sarcastically before noticing the bag at my feet. “Oh shit, that thing go through a wood chipper?”

I shrugged, tell me about it, and Brian headed outside for his own pallet.

I turned my attention back to the pictures.

The girl was inside the airport now. There was a shot of the ticket counter, the departure screens, and one of a grumpy TSA agent at security that made me chuckle.

The next photo was of the entire family at their gate. Must’a been taken by another passenger. The girl was still smiling that same smile, while her parents wore the relieved expressions of folks who were ready to start their vacation.

The screen behind them said:

UNITED 702 – ORLANDO

I figured they were going to Disney World. That’d explain the girl’s smile.

The following pictures documented the family’s journey down the jet bridge, past a blonde flight attendant with bright red lipstick, and to their seats at the rear of the plane.

Wait a sec.

I scrolled back to the picture at the gate.

Flight 702.

The number tugged at something in the back of my brain.

I'd heard it before.

Just then, Brian returned with a fresh load of luggage.

"Brian."

"Yeah?"

"Flight 702 mean anything to you?"

Brian scratched his head.

"Pretty sure that was the Orlando flight."

"What Orlando flight?"

He looked at me.

"The one that crashed."

Now I’ve heard people say their blood ran cold, but I’m tellin’ you, at that moment? My blood might as well have had ice cubes floating in it.

“Hey. You alright?”

“Yeah,” I stammered. “Just need a little air.”

I couldn’t get outside fast enough. A thousand thoughts were runnin’ through my head all at once. As soon as I turned the corner of the loading dock, I pulled out my phone and did a search. The headlines came rushing back –

UNITED FLIGHT 702 CRASHES NEAR NASHVILLE

NTSB INVESTIGATING CATASTROPHIC ENGINE FAILURE

CHILDREN AMONG 238 DEAD IN UNITED CRASH

I felt like I was going to pass out.

That little girl.

Her parents.

All those people on the plane.

They were all dead.

Then another thought hit me, something that really got my head spinning.

What was their bag doin’ here?

I found my supervisor Shelley in the break room, futzing with the coffee pot.

“Hey Shel?”

“Go for Shel.”

“Is there, like, a protocol or something for when we get bags from… uh…”. I trailed off, steadying myself against the counter.

“The heck you tryin’ to say?”

“From plane crashes,” I spat out. “For when we get bags from plane crashes.”

She stared at me like I had sprouted a second head.

“We don’t.”

“Never?”

“Not in the seventeen years I’ve been here.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“I… I was just curious.”

“Weird thing to be curious about.”

I forced a laugh and returned to the warehouse floor, convinced I had been imagining things, or misread the flight number, or… or…

The camera was still sitting on top of the open bag, just where I had left it. I picked it up and navigated to the next image. But the next image wasn’t an image at all.

It was a video.

I hit play.

The camera was pointed out the window as the plane picked up speed and lifted off the runway. “Whoa!” It was the girl’s voice. Hearing it made my heart sink. The camera swung around and settled on her parents in the seats beside her. Her dad winked and said, “Hold onto your butt!”. The girl laughed.

The video ended.

Before I knew it, I’d hit play on the next one.

The girl was in the lavatory now. She waved at herself in the mirror, then focused in on the toilet. She pressed the flush button. The air WHOOSHed and she giggled, delighted.

My hands were shaking. Watching the final moments of these people’s lives play out on a two-inch screen felt wrong. I wanted to warn them, like if I screamed Stop! Turn back! at the top of my lungs, then maybe somehow they’d get the message.

The next video picked up right where the last one left off.

The girl pushed open the lavatory door. She was moving through the galley when a nasty-sounding cough drew the camera’s attention. It was that same blonde flight attendant with the red lipstick, sitting all hunched in her jump seat with a paper towel balled up in her fist. “Are you ok?” the girl asked. “Yes, fine, just a little air sickness.” The flight attendant managed a smile. “Do you like chocolate milk? Our drink service is starting soon.”

The girl must’ve nodded because the flight attendant smiled again and the video ended.

More photos now:

Clouds.

The seat belt.

Hemispheres Magazine.

With each press of the button, I hoped I had reached the end, but the images just kept comin’.

And I couldn’t look away.

Another video:

The girl's parents dozed in their seats. The camera turned toward the front of the plane, showing rows of seatbacks and passengers' heads, and the blonde flight attendant working her way down the aisle with the drink cart. She stopped at the girl's row and fished out a carton of chocolate milk. "Just for you," she said. The camera zoomed in on the carton. "Mmm, thanks." Then the girl tilted the camera back up.

And that's when I saw it.

A thin line of blood ran from the flight attendant's nostril and down into the corner of her mouth. She didn't seem to notice. "Your nose," said the girl. The flight attendant frowned. Then she touched her face. Her fingers came away red and, for a moment, she looked genuinely frightened. She grabbed a napkin from the cart, pressed it to her nose, and hurried back up the aisle, quick as anything.

“The hell?”

I replayed the last few seconds of the video. The blood. The look on the flight attendant's face. A real strange feeling started forming in the pit of my stomach.

Then a nerf football hit me in the shoulder.

“Blue! 42!”

It was Brian again.

He was squatting over a duffel bag full of sports equipment. He threw another wobbler at me and I swatted it away.

“I hit you right in the hands! You gotta catch that.”

“Not now, man.”

He clocked the camera.

"You still messin' around with that thing?"

"Yeah."

"Find out who it belongs to?"

I hesitated. "Maybe."

Brian smirked.

"Hope they ain't expectin' it back."

He didn’t mean anything by it, but I could feel my face getting hot. “Yeah,” I muttered.

As soon as he was gone, I pressed play on the next video.

I wish I hadn’t.

The camera bobbled as the girl climbed over her sleeping parents and lowered herself into the aisle. Up ahead, the flight attendant disappeared into the galley, pulling the blue curtain shut behind her.

The girl paused, probably gathering her nerve. Then she started creeping down the aisle towards the galley. All around her, the other passengers were sittin’ snug in their seats, eyes glued to their screens.

The weird thing was the flight attendant’s feet were still visible beneath the curtain. They hadn’t moved.

The girl took another step.

Then another.

BONG. The camera jumped.

Then the captain’s voice on the intercom, "Folks, if you look out the left side of the aircraft, you'll be able to see the Cumberland River winding through downtown Nashville."

Our girl just kept moving forward.

She was only ten steps from the curtain, lens trained on the flight attendant’s feet. A passenger stood to get something from the overhead bin and the girl had to squeeze sideways to pass.

When she refocused, the feet were gone.

Five steps now.

Three.

The girl’s thin hand reached out and pulled the curtain aside, ever so slowly. The area directly behind the curtain was empty. Just the lavatory door and another curtain leading to business class.

The camera peeked around the corner into the galley.

The flight attendant’s jump seat was empty.

In fact, the entire galley was empty.

The camera floated for a beat, like the girl was unsure of what to do, then she must’ve seen something because she zoomed in on the floor of the galley.

It was a pool of blood.

Drip.

Drip-drip.

The camera pulled back, searching for the source.

The jumpseat?

No.

The counter?

No.

With shared dread, I watched as the camera tilted up towards the ceiling.

The flight attendant was up there.

Pressed against the hull of the plane like a spider.

Her face was turned away from the lens and for a second, neither she or the girl moved. Then the flight attendant’s head began to turn.

Her eyes were black.

Completely black.

And when those dark pits settled on the camera, I swear…

She was lookin’ at me.

Blood pooled at the corners of her mouth.

Drip.

Things started happening really fast now.

The picture whipped around and took off down the aisle, bouncing so violently I could barely make out the passengers jerking upright in their seats.

Then a sound.

Oh my god, that sound.

It was like a cross between a woman’s scream and metal being torn in half.

The cabin lights flickered and – BONG – the captain’s voice crackled over the intercom, speaking too fast for me to understand before dissolving into static.

Then the whole cabin lurched hard to the left.

The image rolled sideways then snapped towards the ceiling. Oxygen masks dropped and dangled. Luggage rained into the aisle. And the flight attendant’s pale form scuttled across the overhead compartments on all fours.

Now everyone was screamin’.

The picture blurred, tumbled across the carpet, and came to rest just inches from the seafoam green roller bag.

Then a window exploded and the world turned white.

***

The video ended.

And I just stood there.

All around me, the warehouse kept humming along like nothin’ had happened.

Eventually I left work. Told Shelley I was gettin’ a migraine. Truth was, it did feel like my head was gonna split open. I drove to Scooter’s in a daze. After my fifth beer, Carrie gave me a ride home and I fell asleep in front of the TV.

The next morning I was pretty sure I’d imagined the whole thing.

Flight 702. The flight attendant. It felt impossible in the cold, hungover light of day.

But I had seen it.

Hadn’t I?

That’s when I decided I needed to show someone the camera.

I got to work early.

Most of yesterday’s luggage was still in the warehouse. Any items of value would have been cleaned, priced and set in the staging area, waiting for the floor staff to arrive.

I scanned the shelves for the camera. It wasn’t there.

I checked the salvage bins.

Nothing.

I saw Shelley pulling into her spot and jogged over.

“You look like shit,” she said as she cut the engine.

“Thanks,” I deflected. “Hey, did you happen to see a little unicorn camera that came in yesterday?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

I let out a sigh of relief.

“Where is it?”

“Some lady from the airline came by yesterday lookin’ for it.”

She brushed past me. I struggled to keep up, panic rising in my throat.

“A lady? What lady?”

“How should I know? Some blonde lady.”

“Tell me you didn’t give it to her.”

Shelley stopped walking.

“Why d’you care?”

I opened my mouth but no sound came out. Shelley stared at me.

“What’d you expect me to do? She said it was hers. And the poor thing sounded awful, so –”

“Awful how?”

“She couldn’t stop coughin’.”

Shelley started walking again, but I stayed rooted to my spot, unable to move.

“Weird thing was she didn’t care whether the camera worked.”

I looked up.

“Just wanted to know if anybody watched it.”

“What’d you tell her?”

Shelley pulled open the warehouse door.

“Brian said you’d been lookin’ through it, so…”

She shrugged.

“I told her you had.”