Chapter 7: Melissa’s Warning

This family’s story was odd. David Harper, the man, was a farmer in his fifties.

He stood on the porch in faded jeans and work boots, polite but guarded. His old pickup rusted away in the weeds.

His wife, Melissa Harper, was nearly twenty years younger.

She looked haunted—hair tangled, hands twisted in her skirt, presence heavy as rain.

She hadn’t been cared for in a long time. Dirt streaked her cheeks, her feet were bare and toughened.

The council president said she’d been disabled since childhood and warned us not to pay her any mind.

He said it with a sigh, like someone repeating the same excuse for years.

But the strangeness didn’t end there—they had three kids, ten, eight, and five.

The children hovered near the porch, eyes wide and silent. Their clothes were patched but clean, hands hidden behind their backs.

They were shy, but didn’t seem to share their mother’s troubles.

They clung together, faces drawn with worry.

Melissa, when nobody was looking, tugged my sleeve and whispered just loud enough for me to hear:

“She ran… tried to run… but they caught her. Caught her good.”

Her eyes darted to the woods, like she saw something I couldn’t.

“Caught… caught…”

The word stuck in her throat, every syllable shaking.

A cold shiver ran down my spine—I felt like I’d missed something obvious.

Just as Melissa muttered “caught,” her husband David noticed.

His face went hard, jaw tight, a muscle jumping in his cheek.

Right then, I saw the honest look drain out of him, replaced by something cold.

He didn’t act with us there; he just pulled Melissa away with a dark glare, muttering:

“Stupid woman… shut up… always talking nonsense…”

I was stunned.

For the first time, I felt like I was in over my head, like we were walking over a graveyard without knowing it.

The council president tried to smooth things over:

He forced a smile and said, “She’s not all there. If you don’t scold her hard, she never learns—always causing trouble. Don’t mind her…”

But I saw Melissa’s pupils shrink, her eyelids tremble.

She shrank into herself, lips shaking, hands twisted in her skirt.

Her chapped lips opened and closed, but no sound came out.

Her silence was the loudest thing in the room.

She looked like a frightened bird—helpless and terrified.

For a second, I wanted to reach out, but the moment passed and the spell broke.

Right then, I started to suspect that in this town…

There were secrets deeper than any police file. The kind that breed violence and silence.

Maybe, just maybe, Emily was the first to fight back.