Chapter 3: The Seer’s Warning

He knelt on her warped porch, hands shaking, tears streaking his cheeks. "Please, Mrs. Ramsey, you gotta help us. I can’t take any more of this." His pride was gone, replaced by raw fear. She watched him for a long moment, lips pressed tight. Then she nodded. "Alright, Wayne. But you best be ready for what we find."

Mrs. Ramsey lived out at the edge of town, in a run-down house with a rusty mailbox and a wind chime that never stopped rattling. At nine years old, I was scared of her. Everyone said she was half-dead—could talk to spirits and the Lord, both.

Her house always gave me the creeps—the porch sagged, the paint peeled, and weeds climbed up the steps like they were trying to drag the place back into the earth. The wind chime clinked and clattered, even when there wasn’t a breeze. People said Mrs. Ramsey could see things in the dark, talk to ghosts, and pray the devil out of a man’s soul—all in the same breath. I always stayed as far from her as I could, but that day, I followed the grown-ups, curiosity prickling at my skin.

Her greatest skill was finding the missing—living or dead. And if someone went missing in Willow Creek, you went to Mrs. Ramsey. No questions.

Folks from all over the county showed up when someone or something went missing. Lost dogs, runaway kids, even a missing wedding ring—Mrs. Ramsey always found them, one way or another. Some said she had a sixth sense; others whispered it was just luck. But nobody could deny her track record, and that day, we needed her more than ever.

Mrs. Ramsey took Grandma Carol’s usual headscarf, muttered some prayers for a while, then suddenly shouted, “Rise!”

The way she handled the scarf—so gentle, almost reverent—made me shiver. I held my breath. It felt like magic—real magic. She closed her eyes, lips moving in a whisper too soft to catch, then snapped them open and shouted, “Rise!” so loud I jumped. The air in the kitchen seemed to hum, and for a split second, it felt like the whole world was holding its breath.

The scarf floated down—like it was being carried—and landed right on the old rice jar.

It was as if an invisible hand had guided it, the scarf drifting through the air and settling softly atop the old glass jar. Everyone gasped, staring at the jar as though it might burst into flames. The room felt colder, and the little hairs on my arms stood up. I glanced at Mrs. Ramsey, but her face gave nothing away.

“I knew it! That rice-borrowing person killed Mom!” Uncle Wayne shouted. He lunged across the kitchen, grabbing the jar. Tears streamed down his face. He rocked back and forth, clutching it like it was all he had left.

His voice cracked, raw with grief and accusation. The rest of us just stared, not sure what to do or say. The silence was so thick you could hear the clock ticking on the wall.

Mrs. Ramsey didn’t say a word, but the way she looked at Uncle Wayne—it gave me chills.

Her eyes narrowed just a touch, watching him with a kind of sad patience. It was like she knew more than she was letting on, like she’d seen this sort of thing before. I caught her glancing at me, her gaze lingering for a second too long, and I shivered, wondering what she saw.