Page 74 of The Premonition at Withers Farm
Counting chickens, Molly noticed only Sylvia was missing. Chloe, check. Izzy, check. Myrtle would be in the brooder with the other chicks. The gate to the chicken yard was open, which was normal for the daytime. The coop door was open as well. No sign of a struggle, no copious amounts of feathers to indicate a war between predator and prey.
“Sylvia?” Molly called. She ducked through the coop’s doorway. The brooder was intact. Trent had wired it so Myrtle and three of the other chicks could be safe beneath a heat lamp. “Sylvia?” she called again, fully expecting the Ameraucana chicken to answer. Silly. For all the craziness of late, Molly found herself roaming the yard with her chickens.Getting to know their personalities. They were becoming friends.
Something had definitely disturbed the chickens, though they were calming now. Still, Molly peeked into the nesting boxes. No Sylvia. A scratching sound at the far end of the building captured her attention. An empty five-gallon bucket had overturned but was bouncing as if something was inside it. Molly hurried to the bucket and attempted to lift it. It was tipped in such a way that the metal handle had popped out on one side and wedged between part of the building’s wooden frame and siding. It made it awkward to release the trapped chicken, as the space the bucket was wedged in provided little room to pull it free.
“How did you get stuck in there, Sylvia?” Molly scolded her chicken with the gray feathers that Sid said were called blue. “Did you do gymnastics?” Molly continued to tease. Sylvia scuffled inside the bucket as Molly worked at releasing the handle so she could remove the bucket.
The handle broke from the plastic, and Molly was finally able to lift it. Sylvia flew out in a proud and offended fluster of feathers. Molly shouted after the retreating chicken, “Chloe is a more grateful Ameraucana Blue than you are!”
Sylvia clucked.
Molly laughed. It felt good to laugh.
Needing to get the bucket’s handle extricated from where it was jammed in the wood frame, Molly squeezed herself between the wall and the nesting box to get a better grip. She tugged and twisted, and the handle finally released with enough of a jerk that Molly’s ample backside banged into the nesting box. The resulting crack as it dislodged from the wall stole Molly’s momentary joy at rescuing her chicken.
“For goodness’ sakes!” she grumbled, opting to sound like her grandmother instead of cursing like her dad always had. Molly dropped the handle and focused her attention on the nesting box, now half torn off the wall. She hefted the boxwith her knee so it didn’t pull out from the wall any farther. Thankfully, there were no eggs in it that could’ve rolled out and broken since this was an old unused nesting box void of straw. She examined the wall where the box was pulling away from. A shadow caught her attention, and Molly frowned. That was odd. She ran her hand along the back of the nesting box, and her palm felt the distinct feel of old, cracking leather.
“What the heck?”
Allowing the box to hang haphazardly, Molly squeezed both hands behind it and tugged at the object. There was a slight ripping sound as the item gave up part of its cover.
This was unexpected. Molly drew the old book toward her. Who attaches a book to the back of a chicken nesting box?
The remaining part of the cover was indeed cracking leather, dried from time and age. The remnant of a decaying black silk ribbon bookmark stuck about an inch above the cover. Cautiously, Molly opened the cover. Its spine crunched from the movement, and she hesitated, only opening it halfway for fear of ruining it. A quick glance confirmed there was no title on the front of the book.
Molly tilted it to peek at the page inside. Handwriting. Thicker cursive in lead pencil scrawled over the page. It was difficult to make out with the book only half open.
May 13, 1910
Moon is in first quarter phase.
1 dead sow. Coyote?
The recorded year immediately snagged Molly’s attention, for 1910 was the year of the Cornfield Ripper. She eyed the writing. It was a journal of sorts. A farmer’s log of the weather? The moon phases? Happenings on this farm? A thrill shot through her. What if one of the Withers family members had written this?
She tried to nudge the journal open wider to allow for further browsing. The spine cracked again, and this timethe book gave in to the pressure without sending pages scattering.
Molly leaned against the wall. The handwriting looked masculine. Broad strokes with a firm edge. The person writing had pushed hard against the paper.
She turned the page.
More weather reports. Mention of a purchase of grain. Sale of three dozen eggs. The writer had penned a preferred forecast on one page, indicating the hope that rain wouldn’t hinder the first cutting of hay.
It was interesting for the purposes of farm history. For anything else, it was boring words of information that were of little use. An almanac of sorts. She recalled back in the day her grandmother mentioning they’d lived by theFarmers’ Almanac. Weather predictions, farm reports, crop indicators. All of it was critical to running a farm before the days of phone apps with their instant and regularly updated weather reports, stock reports at one’s fingertips, even streaming music to play in the tractor while cutting hay.
Molly closed the journal, careful to make sure she didn’t damage the pages further. The book had held up remarkably well, considering it was written starting in 1910. Who knew when the owner had stashed it behind the nesting box, or why.
She pushed off the wall of the coop. The chickens had gathered near her, probably hoping for grain. Molly gave them all a motherly smile.
“Later, girls.”
She stepped around the clucking fowl and made her way from the chicken coop. Molly carried the journal with her, thumbing the edges of its leather binding.
1910.
Withers Farm.
The journal had been hidden the same year the murders of the Withers sisters had occurred. It sparked an urgency inMolly. She hurried to the house and nestled into the booth in the kitchen.
