Chapter 5: Blood on the Mountain

The next day at school, just as I was about to sit down, I cautiously shook out the cushion.

A few rusty thumbtacks fell out.

They clattered to the floor, sharp and mean, glinting in the early morning light. My stomach twisted at the thought of what could’ve happened if I’d just plopped down as usual.

The consequences of being pricked by rusty nails are obvious—one could get tetanus.

My mom always warned me about old nails and tetanus, her voice grave with the memory of some neighbor who’d died that way. Out here, the nearest decent hospital was a forty-minute drive on winding roads.

In such a remote Appalachian area with poor medical care, getting tetanus is basically a death sentence.

We weren’t even sure the little clinic in town kept up with vaccines. If you got sick, you crossed your fingers and hoped for the best.

I pressed my lips tightly together and strode into the classroom.

Every muscle in my body tensed as I walked in, my gaze flicking from student to student. Who knew what else waited for me?

From a distance, I could hear the students making a commotion.

Their voices echoed off the cinderblock walls—taunts, shrieks, the thud of sneakers on old linoleum.

Suddenly, there was a scream. I rushed in.

I shoved open the door just as the shriek cut through the chaos, adrenaline firing through me. The whole classroom seemed to freeze for a heartbeat.

I saw Ellie cornered, with Jamie and the others pouring ink over her head.

Ink ran in black rivulets down her cheeks, staining her collar. She shrank against the wall, shoulders hunched, a picture of misery.

Black ink streamed down her cheeks. She was at a loss, her body trembling.

She looked up, big brown eyes brimming with tears, lips pressed together to keep from sobbing out loud.

Seeing me enter, Jamie and the others scattered quickly.

They bolted like startled deer, shoes squeaking as they dashed for the hallway. The room smelled sharply of ink and sweat.

Ellie wiped her tears and threw herself into my arms.

She pressed her face into my shirt, shaking. I felt her hot breath through the fabric, her grip tight around my waist.

"Teacher, I saw them doing bad things, so I wanted to tell you, but then they..."

She choked on the words, voice muffled. Her whole body trembled as if she was freezing, even though the room was warm.

"Ms. Harper, Ellie is lying!"

Jamie stood up angrily.

He stomped his foot, cheeks flushed with frustration. His friends crowded behind him, glaring.

"She clearly stole our exercise books!"

His accusation was sharp, cutting through the thick air of the classroom. The rest of the kids watched, waiting for my reaction.

"I didn’t!"

Ellie, sobbing, brought her backpack over and opened it for everyone to see.

She dumped the contents out—loose papers, a stubby pencil, the kind of things any kid would have. The zipper stuck, and for a second I thought she’d panic, but her hands stayed steady.

Jamie searched for a long time but found nothing, only a few yellowed sheets of paper and some pencils worn down to the nub.

He rifled through the mess, his confidence fading. The others exchanged uncertain glances.

Jamie stammered, suddenly losing confidence:

"Impossible... She’s the only one in class who likes to steal. If the exercise books are missing, where else could they be..."

His voice trailed off as doubt crept in. Even his friends started to back away, unsure.

Seeing herself gain the upper hand, Ellie cried even harder.

Her wails grew louder, echoing down the hallway. Some of the younger kids looked on with wide eyes.

Jamie and the others had to apologize to her.

They mumbled sorry, heads bowed. I could tell they didn’t believe it, but the rules of the classroom demanded they play along.

Ellie kept clinging to my arm, her head buried in my chest.

Her breath hitched with every sob. I stood stiff, resisting the urge to pull away.

I really wanted to push her away.

Because on my way here, I had already found those exercise books in a pile of dry grass.

A bitter taste filled my mouth. I knelt in the weeds, picking up the scraps. The curses scrawled in angry, looping letters sent a chill crawling up my spine.

The books were torn to shreds, with Jamie’s name written on them.

His name was scrawled in bright marker, the kind only kids use. There was no mistaking who they belonged to.

On the scraps were all sorts of curses, the handwriting unmistakably Ellie’s.

Each insult was carved into the paper, the letters pressed deep and angry. I could almost hear her voice in every word.

But those words didn’t seem like something a child could write—full of hatred, malice, even murderous intent.

It reminded me of the anonymous letters I received in my previous life.

The handwriting matched, right down to the curl on the G’s. I felt a shiver despite the afternoon sun streaming through the window.

Back then, Ellie was even more careful than when she was young, deliberately altering her handwriting.

She’d used block letters in the past, but the anger always leaked through. It was her signature, in a way.

She sent my family at least ten death threats by mail.

The letters were always stamped from some nearby town, but the message was the same: keep quiet, or else.

Told us to keep a low profile or we’d be doomed forever.

Each note grew darker, more threatening. My mom dismissed them as childish pranks. She was wrong.

At first, I thought it was a prank and didn’t take it seriously.

Looking back, I want to shake my younger self. Sometimes, threats are exactly what they appear to be.

Thinking back now, if I’d called the cops then, things might not have gone so far.

The regret is a heavy ache, pressing on my chest. I’d give anything to go back and pick up the phone that night.