Chapter 3: The Girl From the Holler

Ellie wore tattered clothes, her hair a tangled mess. Her two restless little hands twisted together as she stared at me blankly.

She was the picture of Appalachian hardship—faded jeans, hand-me-down hoodie a size too big, holes at the elbows. Her hoodie was a faded Titans sweatshirt, sleeves swallowed her hands. Her face was streaked with dirt, but there was something in her eyes that didn’t match her helpless pose. It sent a chill through me, despite the sticky heat in the air.

With that pitiful look, anyone would feel protective.

If I hadn’t lived through the nightmare, I might have fallen for it again. Even the toughest teachers in these hills would hesitate before raising their voice at her.

But I have to say, she is a true demon.

Even in a place where everyone knows hardship, there was something off about Ellie—something darker, simmering beneath the surface.

Ellie lost her parents young and lived with her grandparents. Their living conditions were truly heartbreaking.

Folks in these parts talk about bad luck like it’s a family heirloom, and Ellie seemed to wear it like a shroud. Her granddad’s rusted pickup was always parked outside the trailer, engine coughing smoke in the winter, tires bald as an old dog’s belly.

In my previous life, when I visited her home, I saw her whole family squeezed into a run-down trailer patched with plywood and tarps.

The trailer smelled like wet dog and old Marlboros, the floor soft underfoot from years of leaks. The only heat came from a wood stove rigged together with coat hangers and faith.

There wasn’t even a proper table, just a pile of odds and ends thrown together.

A milk crate balanced on cinder blocks, covered by a faded Tennessee Volunteers blanket, served as their dining spot. They ate with mismatched silverware, plastic plates long gone cloudy from age.

But in front of me, Ellie always acted obediently, not only helping her grandparents feed the chickens, but also chopping wood out back.

She put on a show for the neighbors—always first to volunteer, never sassed back.

Her grades were quite good, too.

She was the kind of kid the PTA would love to showcase, her report card always taped to the fridge. It made me wonder, now, how much of that was real.

I got it in my head I could be Sandra Bullock—thought I’d give her a shot at something better, just like in "The Blind Side."

Because for three generations, our family had only sons, never a daughter.

My mom had always dreamed of painting a girl’s nails, of baking cookies and braiding hair. Ellie seemed like a miracle.

Once Ellie came to our home, she became the center of attention.

Mom even took her shopping at Walmart for a whole new wardrobe—first time I’d seen her spend that much on anyone but me. She got the new clothes, the latest iPhone, even her own spot at the dinner table. My parents glowed with pride when they talked about her, showing her off at church potlucks and Fourth of July parades.

My parents adored her, even formally recognizing her as a goddaughter.

They threw a little party in her honor, with store-bought cake and a welcome banner. It felt official—almost like we’d adopted her, though the paperwork never came.

They supported her studies and found her a job.

Mom made sure she had a tutor for SAT prep, Dad called in favors to get her a summer gig at the local library. Ellie never had to ask; everything was handed to her.

But we never expected that Ellie herself would poison us.

The night it happened, we were all laughing over dinner. Ellie had cooked. The next morning, none of us woke up right. The memory tastes bitter, like bile.

She secretly bought rat poison, diluted it, and mixed it into our food. She watched us eat it. The stew tasted off, but I didn’t say anything. By the time I realized, it was too late.

She stood in the doorway, arms folded, silent and unblinking. Her eyes followed every spoonful, cold and bright. I tried to swallow, but my throat closed up.

Then she locked the door and, using a pre-installed camera, watched us die from the poisoning.

She’d set up her phone in the kitchen—propped it up on the spice rack, so she could watch every last breath leave our bodies. The cold calculation behind it made my skin crawl.

I can’t forget her twisted laughter at that moment. She used the intercom to cackle wildly:

"Why do you get to stand above everyone else and make me serve you? People like you deserve to die, hahaha."

Her voice rang through the house, bouncing off the walls, growing shriller as we begged for help. That laugh—unhinged, triumphant—still echoes in my nightmares.

If Ellie hadn’t spoken, my parents and I would never have believed it was her, even in death.

We had always cherished her.

Serve? Was it just because she cooked a few meals?

My mother knelt in front of the camera, begging her—right before dying, she kept calling her "daughter, daughter."

I can still see her face, streaked with sweat and tears, her voice ragged as she pleaded for mercy. It broke me.

Ellie never softened.

She just watched, eyes flat, unmoved by any of it. It was like she’d already decided we deserved what we got.

When we were barely clinging to life, she opened the door, sprawled on the sofa, and played video games as if nothing had happened.

She flicked on the old Xbox, controller in hand, feet up on the coffee table. The cheerful game music clashed with our dying gasps. It was surreal.

She watched as my parents and I slowly stopped breathing.

I felt every second stretch out, each breath a struggle. The humiliation, the pain—it carved a hole in me.

In that moment, I was in agony, full of hatred.

I clenched my teeth so hard my molars shattered, my chest filled with rage.

I remember wanting to scream, to curse her, but I couldn’t even make a sound. Rage burned through me, hot and helpless.

Our overflowing kindness had brought calamity.

Sometimes, I wonder if that’s just the way it goes out here. Good deeds come back to haunt you. Trust is a luxury, and we paid for it in blood.

Perhaps even God thought our deaths too senseless, too humiliating, so I was given another life.

Maybe the universe just wanted to see if I’d learned my lesson. Maybe it wanted to watch me choose differently.