Chapter 1: The Night of Seven Grains
On Grandma Carol’s birthday, someone showed up at our door with a plastic bucket, asking if he could borrow just seven grains of rice. Seven? Who asks for just seven? The request was so odd it stopped us all in our tracks.
The whole scene was strange from the jump—nobody in Willow Creek ever came around asking for rice, let alone just seven grains. The man’s voice was raspy, almost apologetic, but it sent a chill down my spine. I didn’t like the way he looked at us. The bucket he held looked like the kind you’d see bait fish in down by the river—its sides streaked with mud, and something that glistened darkly in the porch light. The air that night was thick with summer heat, but when he spoke, it felt like the temperature dropped a notch.
Uncle Wayne muttered about bad luck and chased the person off, but Grandma Carol counted out seven grains of rice and ran after him—and never came back.
Uncle Wayne’s voice was sharp, practically spitting as he barked at the stranger, waving him off with the kind of anger that comes from a place deeper than just superstition. Grandma Carol, always the soft touch, ignored him. She scooped up the grains, her hands trembling just a little...maybe from age, maybe from something else...and slipped out the door in her slippers, calling after the man. I remember the screen door slamming. It sounded like a warning. That was the last I ever saw of her, her silhouette fading into the night, holding out her hand with those tiny grains of rice.
She was never seen alive again. Her body was never found.
The search parties combed the woods and creek banks, calling her name into the thick summer air. It was like the world just...swallowed her up. The house felt empty, even with all of us inside it—her laughter, her humming, gone. At dinner, nobody touched their food, and every time the wind rattled the windowpanes, I hoped it was her coming home. But she never did.