Page 5 of Curses and Cornstalks
“You can’t just say no,” she whispers, leaning further over the table. “It’s rule number one of living in Cold Springs.”
Now I’m just annoyed, growing more irritated the longer this conversation drags on. It’s so silly, and it boggles my mind that people can be so afraid of hurting someone’s feelings that they’ve made it into a town rule.
A town rule.The thought is laughable.
“I know you don’t understand,” she goes on, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. I understand plenty—this place is obviously just as nutty as I thought—but I let her speak. “There are three rules that everyone here knows to follow. No one ever breaks them.”
I’m reluctant to ask what the other two are, worried they’ll be just as crazy as not turning down apple pie, but my curiosity is piqued.
“What’s the second rule?”
Maddie’s eyes flick toward the kitchen door for any sign of Lucinda before she answers.
“Don’t be in town before noon on Sundays,” she says, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.
Admittedly, that one makes a little more sense, especially if the people here go to church on Sunday mornings. Not my cup of tea though.
“And the third?” I ask, feeling a little more optimistic. Maybe the apple pie rule is the only crazy one after all.
This time, Madelyn blanches, the color quickly fading from her cheeks. She swallows hard, her eyes darting toward the kitchen again before she leans even further over the table, nearly laying on top of it.
Her voice drops so low, I can hardly make out what she’s saying, so I wind up leaning forward until our foreheads almost touch.
“I’m only going to say this once, but the third rule is the most important.” She clears her throat and barrels on. “Never, under any circumstance, engage with the Watcher.”
Nope, we’re clearly back to crazy.
“Thewho?”
She opens her mouth to answer, but at that moment, Mrs. Lucinda appears in the doorway and wobbles over to the table, carrying a red tray with our food.
“Here you go, girls. Enjoy!”
Chapter Three
Cassie
Despite my bestefforts to get answers out of her, Madelyn refuses to say anything else at the diner. However, the longer I sit there, the more questions fill my mind.
Who is the Watcher and why is she so deathly afraid to talk about him?
Is he a real person, or a legend these people have made up to explain paranormal activity?
Is he a ghost? An animal? Someone’s creepy uncle who slinks around town and catcalls women?
I’m growing more desperate for answers by the second.
We finish our milkshakes, whicharefantastic, and take our slices of apple pie to go. As we’re backing out of the parking space in front of the diner, I can’t hold in my questions any longer.
“Maddie, who the hell is the Watcher?”
Her jaw tenses at the name, and she waits until we’re rolling down the road to say anything. She still keeps her voice low, like she’s afraid of being overheard, even though we’re completely alone.
At first, I thought she was overreacting, but the genuine fear in her eyes speaks volumes. The hairs on my arms creep up to attention.
“It depends on who you ask.”
“Well, I’m asking you.” I attempt to keep my temper on a leash. Her vagueness and deflection are grating on my patience.
