Page 15 of The Premonition at Withers Farm
George tugged her closer, and this time Perliett’s breath caught. She felt his glare, even though the night shrouded it.
“I do not want to retrieve your mutilated body from a cornfield tomorrow morning. Do as I ask.”
She gaped at him. How stupid. How stupid her own stubbornness was. Hearing it so bluntly put brought common sense swooping in and made her feel very foolish.
“Please,” George added, though it was choked and sounded as if it pained him.
Perliett scanned the darkness. The shadows. The cornstalks weaving back and forth in a subtle motion like the thin arms of a skeleton man. She could imagine them reaching for her, straining through the night, until bony fingers wrapped around her, digging into her skin. She felt him—the Skeleton Man—pull her toward his maze of stalks. An abyss where corn spiders hung off sticky leaves, and where he shoved corn silk into her mouth to silence her. Silks that dangled down her throat, gagging her as he drew back a bony arm, knife glistening in the brief shaft of moonlight—
“Yes. Yes.” Perliett half threw her box into the buggy and hurried to climb in. “Take me home, George.”
6
Molly
Her eyes snapped open, greeted only by the dark silence of their bedroom. Molly turned her head on her pillow. Trent was beside her. Asleep. The scruff on his face barely visible in the darkness. The window was directly above them, their headboard peeking over the sill. A four-paned farmhouse window with flimsy curtains. Through them she could make out stars in the night sky and see a large branch of the maple tree that swooped over the yard.
Molly jerked her attention to the door on her side of the bed. There it was again. A scraping sound. She was frigid under the sheet and blanket. Chills swept down her arms and legs. A general coldness settled over Molly. Why did everything creepy have to happen at night, in the dark? She should feel safe—Trent was right beside her. But he would sleep through the end of the world. In fact, he hadn’t moved since he’d come to bed.
The old farmhouse was full of strange noises. That was it, Molly reassured herself. With the floors being so uneven, a draft could make a door close. Ghostly but explainable.
Even breathing sounded loud to Molly. She held her breath,straining to hear whether the farmhouse was groaning its protests from being shifted in the night, or if—
The floorboards outside the closed bedroom door creaked as they argued against some force pressing down on the hardwood. Molly clenched her teeth, willing her breaths to remain silent. Someone was there. In the house. The floor wouldn’t groan on its own. They had no pets roaming the house.
Molly reached under the covers and poked Trent. He grunted, rolled onto his side, his back to the door. The chills hadn’t dissipated. If anything, she had gotten colder. Molly stared at the door, its antique hinges, the beveled edges. It was a heavy bedroom door, unlike the hollow modern doors. But there wasn’t a lock on it. She hadn’t wanted to sleep closest to the door. When she was a kid, she’d always chosen the bed farthest from the door. For whoever slept closest would be the first to die if some unknown entity broke in with malicious intent. It wasn’t heroic of her by any means, but it was her reasoning nonetheless. Molly regretted that Trent had arranged the bedding and positioned her where she didn’t want to be. Now she was stuck, every night, sleeping by the bedroom door. The first to die...
She sat up. The floor creaked again, and then suddenly the chill dissipated. The oppressive weight of the unknown seemed to flee.
“What’s wrong?” Trent’s groggy voice broke through the terrifying stillness.
Molly jumped, clutched at the blanket, and flung out her hand to slap her husband. It was instinctual. Driven by surprise and pent-up fear.
“Ow!” Trent ducked away, trying to dodge her open palm that connected with his shoulder.
“Someone’s out there,” Molly hissed. “Get your gun.”
Trent was instantly alert. His hand came up, warning her to be silent. He was listening. Reaching for his nightstand, Molly saw Trent’s fingertips rest on the lockbox he keptthere. The latch released, and the hinged door opened. He drew out his handgun like any typical country boy from the Midwest would. Heck, if it was safe, he’d probably sleep with the gun tucked under his pillow.
There were no more sounds except the rustling of the sheets as Trent eased himself from the bed. Palming the grip on the gun, he held it pointed up and close to his shoulder as he made his way to the door. With caution, he opened the door, now leading with the gun, aiming to clear the hall. Minutes clicked by. Molly heard Trent’s movements. Checking the rooms upstairs, followed by his light footsteps down the stairs to the main level. Then there was nothing. Silence.
Molly knew better than to follow Trent. But perching in bed helplessly didn’t rest well with her either. Especially in this place. This place that wasn’t home yet, but a foreign house that had given respite to others for over a century. Souls that had passed through it, born here, died here. They lingered—or maybe it was their memories that lingered—in the framework. Lost voices, stilled by the silencing of time. Death was a necessary evil. No one’s story remained forever, and even if something had embedded the memories in the walls, they didn’t put out a welcome to anyone who was a stranger here. Instead, Molly couldfeelthem eyeing her, staring at her from the shadowed corners. Questioning her.
Why have you come?
What is your purpose here?
What will you do to mar this place for the next generation?
Somehow, old farmhouses weren’t warm and inviting like the magazines made them appear. No Pinterest board of creams and beiges could serve up enough inspiration to convince Molly that this place wasn’t filled with secrets. Dark secrets. The kind that old places like this tried to hide but that came alive in the dead of night. Hunted by a husband with a gun that would have absolutely no impact if the sounds were from another entity altogether.
Molly snuggled into the bed, childishly pulling the blankets up over her ears and covering half of her face. She knew the truth now. She’d sent Trent on a goose chase for someone made of flesh and bone. Someone Trent was sure to think was associated with the dead girl he’d found that morning. Her vacant eyes, life stolen from her. Trent would be on alert for a killer.
But the floor creaking ... the scraping ... Molly knew—or she fought against the knowing—that it was the house itself. Speaking to her. Stalking her. Letting her know that even in her sleep, they would follow. The voices. The spirits. The ones clamoring for her attention that she so ardently fought to silence, and the ones she so desperately kept secret from her own husband.
Molly cupped her coffee mug with both hands as she watched Trent through the window. He strode across the gravel drive and climbed into his truck parked outside the barn. White paint chipped off the barn’s side. Weatherworn. A tin roof dented and scarred by time. He didn’t know. Hecouldn’tknow. For one thing, she was on antidepressants. She’d not been the same since their miscarriages, and though difficult, it was accepted by both of them. It was one of the reasons she didn’t work. Trent wanted her life to be as anxiety-free as possible. Too bad he didn’t realizehecaused at least fifty percent of her anxiety by living so platonically. Passion had fizzled with the onslaught of grief.
But—Molly took a sip of coffee—she would never,nevertell Trent what had developed since they’d lost their babies. The visions. The sounds. He’d have her committed. He’d race her to a hospital, have her put in a straitjacket. Lord knew what exactly he would do, but she was certain Trent would not just sit back passively and accept that she heard voices. She could keep up with the façade. She had for the last yearanyway. Since miscarriage number four. She could live alone in silence with her ghosts.
