“The Willow Creek Murders”:
I lived a few miles from the Becker family’s farm, out in the quiet countryside where the nearest neighbor was a good walk away, and fields of wheat and corn stretched as far as you could see. Their place, Willow Creek, was a modest farmstead, just a small house, a barn, and a few sheds, all nestled between dense woods and rolling hills. I’d known them for years—Karl, his wife Anna, their daughter Lena, her two kids, Emma and Max, and their new maid, Clara. We weren’t the closest, but I’d stop by every couple of weeks to trade eggs, share a bit of news, or lend a hand with a broken gate. Karl was a gruff man, hardworking, but kind enough. Anna was quiet, always baking or tending to the garden. Lena, though, was the heart of the place, raising her kids alone after her husband passed. Lately, the whole family seemed on edge, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
About a week ago, I made the trek to Willow Creek to return some tools Karl had lent me for fixing my fence. The path was familiar, a dirt trail cutting through tall grass and past an old, weathered barn that leaned slightly to one side. When I arrived, I found Karl outside, crouched near the machine shed, staring at the ground. His face was drawn, with dark circles under his eyes, like he hadn’t slept in days. His hands were dirty, and he held a hammer like he’d been working on something.
“Hey, Karl,” I called, holding up the tools. “Got your things back.”
He barely looked up, his eyes fixed on the ground. “Thanks,” he said, his voice low and tight. “You seen anything strange around your place?”
I set the tools down on a stump and walked over. “Strange? Like what?”
He pointed to the dirt. There were footprints, deep and uneven, leading from the edge of the woods straight to the shed. They weren’t Karl’s boots—I knew his tread from helping him last summer. These were different, wider, with a strange, dragging pattern. “Found these yesterday,” he said. “Lock on the shed was busted, too. And last week, I found a newspaper from the city just lying in the yard. We don’t get those out here.”
I squinted at the footprints, my stomach twisting a little. “That’s odd,” I said, trying to sound calm. “Maybe some kids messing around? Or a hunter passing through?”
Karl shook his head. “No kids out here. And hunters don’t leave city papers.” He stood up, wiping his hands on his overalls, and glanced toward the woods. “Something’s not right.”
Before I could reply, Lena stepped out of the house, wiping her hands on an apron. She was usually all smiles, her dark hair tied back, but today her face was pale, her eyes darting around like she expected someone to jump out. “Hans,” she said, her voice shaky, “you ever hear noises at night?”
“Noises?” I asked, crossing my arms. “What kind?”
“In the attic,” she said, stepping closer. “Footsteps, like someone’s pacing up there. Heavy steps. The old maid quit a few months back because of it. Said the place was cursed, packed her bags, and left.” She hugged herself, glancing at the house. “It’s been worse lately. The footsteps stop when we go up to check, but there’s nothing there. No dust disturbed, no tracks.”
I tried to laugh, hoping to ease the tension. “Old houses creak, Lena. Could be rats or the wind.”
“It’s not rats,” she snapped, her voice sharp. “Rats don’t walk like a man. And the kids are scared. Emma won’t sleep in her room anymore.”
Karl put a hand on her shoulder, his face softening. “Let’s not worry him,” he said, but his eyes flicked back to the woods, like he was searching for something. “We’ll figure it out.”
I stayed a bit longer, helping Karl fix a loose board on the shed. Anna came out with a glass of water for me, her hands trembling slightly as she handed it over. “You’re kind to check on us,” she said quietly. “It’s been… uneasy here.”
“Anything I can do?” I asked, taking a sip.
She hesitated, then shook her head. “Just keep an eye out,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
I left Willow Creek feeling heavier than when I’d arrived. The farm had always been peaceful, a place where the only sounds were the cluck of chickens or the lowing of cows. Now, it felt wrong, like the air itself was holding its breath. I kept thinking about those footprints, the newspaper, and Lena’s scared eyes. I told myself it was probably nothing, just country life wearing them down. But deep down, I wasn’t so sure.
Four days later, I realized I hadn’t seen any of the Beckers in town. They usually came by every few days for flour or to sell eggs at the market. It was strange for them to stay away so long. I decided to check on them, figuring I’d ease my mind. When I got to Willow Creek, the place was eerily still. The animals were restless—cows bellowing in the barn, chickens scratching at empty feed troughs. The dog, tied to a post near the house, was barking furiously, straining at its rope, its fur matted and eyes wild.
“Karl?” I called, knocking on the front door. The wood was rough under my knuckles, and the sound echoed. No answer. I tried again, louder. “Lena? Anna?” Nothing. The windows were dark, curtains drawn tight. The air felt thick, like it was pressing down on me.
I circled the house, checking the garden and the sheds, but everything was untouched. The tools I’d returned were still on the stump, exactly where I’d left them. I headed to the barn, thinking maybe they were tending to the animals. The big double doors were half-open, creaking slightly as I approached. I stepped inside, and the smell hit me like a punch—sharp, metallic, mixed with the musty scent of hay. My stomach churned, and my heart started pounding.
In the dim light filtering through the barn’s slats, I saw them. Karl, Anna, Lena, and little Emma, all piled in a corner, half-covered with straw. Their heads were smashed, skulls caved in, faces twisted in ways that made my knees weak. Blood had pooled beneath them, soaking into the dirt floor, dark and sticky. I stumbled back, my breath catching in my throat. “No,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “No, no, no.”
I turned and ran to the house, praying someone was still alive. The back door was unlocked, swinging open with a groan. Inside, the kitchen was dim, the air stale. Clara, the new maid, was slumped against the wall, her head crushed, a broom still clutched in her hand like she’d tried to fight. In the next room, I found Max in his crib, his tiny body still, his face ruined like the others. The sight of him, so small and helpless, made my vision blur.
I stood there, frozen, my mind screaming. Who did this? Why? I thought of the footprints, the newspaper, the noises Lena had described. Someone had been here, watching them, planning this. Then I noticed the kitchen table—crumbs scattered across it, a half-eaten loaf of bread, a knife stuck in a wedge of cheese. The hearth was still warm, embers glowing faintly. Whoever did this hadn’t just killed them. They’d stayed, eaten their food, lived among the bodies. My skin crawled at the thought.
I bolted out of the house, my legs shaky, and ran to my neighbor Lorenz’s place, nearly a mile away. My chest burned by the time I got there, banging on his door. “Lorenz!” I shouted, my voice hoarse. “The Beckers—they’re dead! All of them!”
He opened the door, his face confused. “Dead? What are you talking about?”
“In the barn, the house—someone killed them,” I gasped, leaning against the doorframe. “We need help.”
Lorenz’s eyes widened, and he grabbed his coat. “Stay here,” he said, but I shook my head.
“I’m coming with you.”
We grabbed another neighbor, Eduard, and the three of us hurried back to Willow Creek. When we reached the barn, Lorenz stopped short, his face going white as he saw the bodies. Eduard gagged, turning away. “This is evil,” he whispered, crossing himself. “Who could do this to a family?”
We checked the house again, hoping for any sign of life, but there was nothing. Just silence and blood. Lorenz pointed to the kitchen. “Look at this,” he said, his voice low. “The killer ate here. Slept here, maybe. The animals were fed, too.”
I felt sick. “How could someone do that?” I asked, my voice barely audible.
Eduard shook his head. “Some people ain’t human.”
We sent for the police, but it took hours for them to arrive from town. When they did, they combed through the farm, asking questions, taking notes. They found the footprints again, still clear in the dirt. The broken lock on the shed. The city newspaper, now crumpled in a corner of the yard. In the barn loft, they found a mattock, its blade crusted with blood and hair. The police said the killer might have stayed for days, tending the animals, cooking in the kitchen, sleeping in the house with the dead. The thought made my stomach turn.
Weeks passed, and the police found no answers. They questioned everyone in town, from farmhands to travelers, but no one knew anything. Some People whispered about robbers, a jealous lover, even a family feud, but nothing fit. The money in the house was untouched, and nothing was stolen. Willow Creek was torn down a year later, the land left empty, marked only by a small stone where the house once stood. I never walked that path again. I still see Lena’s scared face sometimes, hear her voice asking about noises in the night. I wonder if she sensed what was coming, if they all did. The countryside used to feel like home, but now, every rustle in the woods, every shadow, makes me wonder who’s out there, waiting, watching.
“The Inn at Bender’s Grove”:
I was riding through the Kansas countryside, my horse plodding along the dusty trail. My back ached from days in the saddle, and my stomach twisted with hunger. I’d been traveling west, alone, for nearly a week, sleeping under the stars and eating whatever I could carry. A wooden sign caught my eye, pointing down a narrow path to an inn called Bender’s Grove. The thought of a soft bed and a warm meal pulled me in, so I turned my horse and followed the trail.
The inn came into view—a small, weathered cabin with a slanted roof and a barn off to the side. It sat alone in the vast, empty prairie, with no other houses or travelers in sight. Smoke drifted from the chimney, and a faint glow flickered in the windows. I tied my horse to a post near the porch, my boots crunching on the dry ground. A woman stepped out, older, with gray hair tied back and a plain dress under a stained apron. Her smile was tight, like it didn’t quite fit her face.
“Welcome, traveler,” she said, her voice warm but sharp, like a knife wrapped in cloth. “I’m Ma. You look tired. Come in and rest.”
I nodded, grateful for the kindness, and followed her inside. The main room was small and dim, lit by a single oil lamp on a rough wooden table. A few chairs sat around it, and a heavy curtain hung across therika, splitting the room in two. The air smelled of stew, woodsmoke, and something sour I couldn’t place. A younger woman, maybe in her twenties, stood by a stove in the corner, stirring a pot. She had sharp features, dark hair, and eyes that seemed to see right through me. Her smile was bright but didn’t touch her eyes.
“This is my daughter, Kate,” Ma said, gesturing toward her.
Kate looked me over, her hands pausing on the spoon. “Traveling alone?” she asked, her voice soft but probing.
“Yeah,” I said, setting my bag on the floor. “Just passing through.”
She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Alone is dangerous out here,” she said, almost whispering. “The prairie’s full of trouble.”
Her words hung in the air, and I shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve managed so far,” I said, trying to sound easygoing. Something about her tone made my skin prickle, but I was too tired to dwell on it. I just wanted food and a place to sleep.
Ma pointed to a chair at the table, right next to the curtain. “Sit there,” she said. “Best seat in the house.”
I sat, my back to the curtain, and Ma brought me a bowl of stew. It was thick, with chunks of meat, potatoes, and carrots, steaming in the cool air of the room. I ate quickly, the warmth spreading through me. Kate watched from the stove, her eyes flicking to the curtain every few seconds. The fabric was heavy, faded red, and it swayed slightly, like a breeze I couldn’t feel was moving it. I told myself it was nothing, just my mind playing tricks after days on the road.
A man came in from a back door, tall and broad, with dirt smudged on his hands and a blank look on his face. Ma called him John. He didn’t speak, just nodded at me and sat near the front door, pulling out a knife and a whetstone. The sound—scrape, scrape, scrape—filled the room, steady and unsettling. I tried to focus on my stew, but the noise burrowed into my thoughts.
“You staying the night?” Ma asked, pouring me a tin cup of water.
“Thought I might,” I said, wiping my mouth. “You got a room?”
“We’ve got a bed,” she said, pointing to a door off the main room. “It’s small, but cozy. You’ll sleep well.”
Her words were kind, but her eyes were hard, like she was studying me. John’s knife kept scraping, and Kate’s glances at the curtain grew more frequent. My chest tightened, a faint warning I couldn’t explain. The room felt smaller, the lamplight weaker. I finished my stew and pushed the bowl away.
“Mind if I stretch my legs?” I said, standing.
Ma’s smile faltered, just for a second. “No need,” she said. “You must be worn out. Why not see the room now?”
Her tone was firm, like a suggestion that wasn’t really a suggestion. John stopped sharpening his knife and looked at me, his hand still gripping the blade. My heart beat faster, loud in my ears. I didn’t know why I felt trapped, but I did.
“Just a quick walk,” I said, forcing a smile. “Clear my head.”
Kate stepped toward me, her smile gone. “It’s late,” she said, her voice low. “Better to stay inside.”
Her words sent a chill down my spine. She was close now, close enough that I could smell the faint sweetness of her hair. I laughed, trying to keep things light. “I’ll be right back. Promise.”
Before she could argue, I moved past her and pushed open the front door. The air outside hit me, sharp and clean, and I breathed deep, trying to shake the knot in my gut. The barn loomed across the yard, its doors half-open, and I walked toward it, needing distance from the cabin’s heavy air. The prairie stretched endless around me, silent except for the faint rustle of grass.
Then I saw him—an older man with a gray beard, standing in the orchard near the barn. He was digging, his shovel slicing into the dirt with a dull thud. The hole was deep, wide, and long, like something meant to hold more than roots or seeds. My breath caught. Why was he digging at night? My mind raced, piecing together the curtain, Kate’s eyes, John’s knife. The hole looked like a grave.
I stood frozen, my boots sinking slightly in the soft ground. The man hadn’t seen me yet. He worked steadily, his shovel hitting the earth—thud, thud, thud. Each sound tightened the knot in my chest. I took a step back, and a twig snapped under my foot. His head jerked up, his eyes locking onto mine. They were cold, empty, like a predator sizing up prey. He gripped the shovel tighter, his knuckles white.
I turned and walked fast toward the cabin, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst. I didn’t run—I didn’t want to show fear—but every step felt like a gamble. Inside, Ma and Kate were waiting, standing too close to the door. John leaned against the wall, his knife now tucked into his belt, but his hand rested near it.
“See anything interesting?” Ma asked, her voice smooth but edged with something dark.
“Just the barn,” I lied, keeping my tone steady. “Think I’ll head out, though. Long ride tomorrow.”
Kate stepped closer, her eyes searching mine. “You should stay,” she said. “The road’s no place for a man alone.”
“I’ll manage,” I said, grabbing my bag from the floor. John straightened, his hand brushing the knife’s handle. My mouth went dry. I needed to stall, to think. My eyes darted to the door Ma had pointed out—the one to the bedroom.
“Let me check the room first,” I said, trying to sound calm. “Then I’ll decide.”
Ma hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Go on,” she said finally, nodding toward the door.
I walked to it, my hand shaking as I turned the handle. The room was tiny, with a narrow cot, a single chair, and a window covered in grime. I stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind me. I tried the handle—locked. My stomach dropped like a stone. I was trapped.
Voices came through the wall, low and hurried. “He saw Pa digging,” Kate whispered, her words sharp with panic. “He knows something.”
“Quiet,” Ma snapped. “Get the hammer. We’ll do it quick.”
My blood ran cold. A hammer. I pictured it—heavy, swinging down. My hands trembled as I pushed at the door, but it held firm. The window was my only chance. I ran to it, clawing at the latch. It was rusted, stuck tight. I grabbed the chair and swung it at the glass, the crash echoing in the small room. Shards fell, and cool air rushed in.
Hands grabbed me from behind—John, his arms like iron, yanking me back. His breath was hot on my neck, his grip crushing. I twisted, kicking wildly, and drove my elbow into his face. He grunted and stumbled, his hold loosening just enough. I lunged for the window, hauling myself through. Glass cut my hands and arms, warm blood trickling down, but I didn’t stop. I hit the ground outside, scrambling to my feet.
Shouts erupted behind me—Ma’s voice, sharp and furious, calling for John. I sprinted across the yard, my boots slipping in the dirt. The barn flashed by, then the orchard, where the man with the shovel still stood, watching me. I didn’t look back. I reached my horse, my hands fumbling with the reins. I swung into the saddle and kicked hard, the horse bolting down the trail.
The inn’s lights faded behind me, swallowed by the dark. I rode for hours, my heart still racing, until I reached a small town at dawn. I found the sheriff, my words tumbling out—the grave, the locked door, the hammer. He listened, his face growing darker with every detail. He gathered men and rode to Bender’s Grove that day.
Days later, I heard what they found. The Benders were gone, vanished without a trace. But the orchard was a graveyard. Eleven bodies, maybe more, buried in shallow pits. Travelers like me, lured in with smiles and stew, never seen again. Some had been struck with a hammer, their skulls cracked. Others had their throats cut. The town buzzed with horror, but the Benders were long gone, slipped into the prairie’s endless expanse.
I still see that hole in the orchard when I close my eyes. I hear the shovel’s thud, feel John’s hands grabbing me. I got out, but the fear stays. Every quiet inn, every kind stranger, makes me wonder if I’ll ever really escape Bender’s Grove.
"Lights in the Distance":
My son’s call hit me at 2 a.m., his voice slicing through the stillness of our house. “Dad, I crashed my car. It’s stuck in a ditch. I’m okay, but I’m lost.” He’d been at a party in Canby, celebrating his college graduation with friends, laughing over music and burgers. I was half-asleep, the clock’s faint glow the only light in the room, but his words yanked me upright. My heart thudded as I grabbed my glasses from the nightstand, fingers fumbling. “Where are you?” I asked, already tugging on my jeans, the denim cold against my skin.
“I’m on a gravel road, near Marshall, I think,” he said, his voice steady but with a tremor, like he was holding it together. “I see lights in the distance. Looks like a town.” Marshall was 30 miles from Canby. Lynd, a tiny speck of a place, was closer to where he’d likely crashed. My mind raced, picturing the flat farmlands out there—endless fields of corn and soybeans, gravel roads snaking through, swallowed by dark. “You sure it’s Marshall?” I asked, lacing my boots, the leather creaking. “That’s far.”
“I see the lights, Dad,” he said, insistent. “They’re bright, steady. I’m not that far off.” My wife stirred, her eyes wide with fear as she sat up, clutching the quilt. “What’s happening?” she whispered, voice tight. I waved her to stay quiet, grabbing my keys from the dresser, the metal jingling in my shaking hand. “Stay where you are,” I told him, my tone sharp. “I’m coming to get you. Don’t move.”
“No, Dad, I can make it,” he said, stubborn as ever. “I’m walking toward the lights. It’s close, maybe a mile.” That stubborn streak—he’d had it since he was a kid, always pushing to do things his way. But my stomach knotted. Those roads are black at night, no streetlights, no houses for miles, just fields and silence. “Don’t,” I said, almost shouting. “It’s too dark. You’ll get lost.” My voice echoed in the bedroom, too loud.
He gave a small, tired laugh. “I’m fine. I’ve got my phone. I’ll keep you on.” I wanted to argue, but he’d already made up his mind. I kissed my wife’s forehead, her skin clammy, and muttered, “I’ll call soon.” The truck’s engine growled as I started it, headlights carving a narrow path through the dark. I set the phone on speaker, propped on the passenger seat, its screen glowing faintly. “What do you see?” I asked, gripping the wheel, my knuckles white.
“Fields,” he said, his voice crackling slightly. “Corn, tall as me. Barbed wire fences, rusted. There’s a creek or something on my left, gurgling.” His breathing was louder, shoes crunching on gravel, maybe dirt. The countryside out there is desolate—gravel roads that twist nowhere, dust that chokes the air, fields that seem to watch you. I swallowed, throat dry. “Any signs? A barn, a mailbox?” I asked, desperate for something to pinpoint him.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just the lights ahead. They’re steady, not cars. Like a town.” His words were calm, but there was an edge, like he was convincing himself. I kept him talking, asking about the party to ground him. “It was fun,” he said. “Friends, music, grilled food. I didn’t drink much, Dad. Couple beers, that’s it.” His voice was clear, no slur, but my mind churned. Why was he so far from Canby? Why Marshall?
I passed a crooked mailbox, its red flag bent, the only sign of life. My headlights caught a jackrabbit, eyes glinting before it vanished into the corn. “Still see the lights?” I asked, my voice tight. “Yeah, brighter now,” he said. “I’m on a narrow path, like a tractor trail. It’s leading right to them.” His breathing was heavier, steps quicker. The dashboard clock read 2:45 a.m. We’d been talking for nearly 45 minutes, and I was still miles from Lynd. My foot pressed harder on the gas, the truck rattling.
“Any cars? People?” I asked, scanning the dark. “No,” he said, pausing. “It’s quiet. Just the creek and the corn rustling.” The silence on his end felt heavy, like the fields were listening. “You near a highway?” I said. “Maybe it’s headlights, not a town.” Another pause, longer this time. “No, it’s not cars. It’s steady, like buildings. I’m close, Dad. Half a mile, maybe.” His certainty chilled me. Marshall was 25 miles away, across flat land. What was he seeing?
My hands shook as I drove, the road stretching endlessly. “Stay on the path,” I said. “Don’t cross any water. The Yellow Medicine River’s out there, shallow but slippery.” I pictured its muddy banks, steep drops hidden in the dark. “I’m careful,” he said, but his voice was distant, like he was focused elsewhere. The phone crackled, his steps uneven now. “What’s that sound?” I asked, leaning toward the speaker. “Just the ground,” he said. “It’s soft, like dirt.”
We talked, my voice steady to keep him calm, but fear clawed at me. He described the corn swaying, the creek’s low murmur, the lights flickering slightly, like they were just over a rise. I was about to beg him to stop when he said, “Hold on, I’m crossing a field. It’s a shortcut to the lights.” My heart stopped. “No!” I yelled. “Stay on the path! There’s ditches, rivers—you’ll fall!” My voice cracked, desperate.
“It’s fine,” he said, stubborn again. “The field’s flat. I see the lights clear now, so close.” His voice was eager, almost excited, but it made my skin crawl. I pictured him pushing through tall grass, roots snagging his sneakers, the river lurking nearby. “Please,” I said, softer, pleading. “Wait for me.” He didn’t answer right away, just breathed, steps crunching. Then, out of nowhere, he shouted, “Oh shit!” The line went dead silent. Not disconnected—silent.
“Hey!” I screamed, the truck swerving as I grabbed the phone. “You there? Talk to me!” Nothing. I shouted his name, over and over, my voice hoarse, the phone’s screen showing the call still active, seconds ticking. My chest heaved, panic flooding me. I slammed the gas, the truck lurching, gravel spraying. The fields blurred past, dark and endless, like they were closing in.
I dialed 911, hands trembling, the phone still on speaker. “My son’s missing,” I choked out. “He was on the phone, walking near Lynd, and he yelled ‘Oh shit’ and stopped talking.” I spilled it all—his crash, the lights, his path toward Marshall. The operator was calm, too calm, telling me to breathe, that officers were on the way. “Where are you?” she asked. “Near Lynd,” I said, voice breaking. “I’m finding his car.”
Twenty minutes later, I spotted it—a glint of metal in a ditch off a narrow road. Nose-down, headlights off, driver’s door wide open. I skidded to a stop, grabbed my flashlight, and stumbled out, calling his name. “Hey! Where are you?” My voice vanished into the dark, answered only by crickets and the rustle of corn. The flashlight’s beam swept the ditch, the road, the field’s edge. No footprints, no signs. The keys dangled in the ignition, glinting faintly, like they were waiting for him.
Police arrived, their lights pulsing red and blue across the fields. An officer, burly with a clipped voice, asked me to recount the call. “He saw lights,” I said, my hands shaking. “Thought it was Marshall. But that’s impossible from here.” The officer’s brow furrowed, glancing at the flat horizon. “No way he saw Marshall,” he muttered. “Maybe a farmhouse, a grain elevator.” They searched, flashlights darting, boots crunching. One found a candy wrapper near the car, crumpled, but it wasn’t his. Another checked the creek, its water black and still.
Dawn brought volunteers—farmers in flannel, townsfolk with coffee, their faces grim. “He’s a good kid,” a woman said, handing me a blanket, her voice soft but heavy. I nodded, unable to speak, my eyes fixed on the fields. They dragged the Yellow Medicine River, divers wading through mud. Dogs sniffed barns, fields, ditches. His phone was dead, last signal from that field where he’d shouted. Theories swirled—river current, a drifter offering a ride. But no tracks, no witnesses, nothing.
Those lights haunted me. Marshall was too far, the land too flat. A grain elevator’s beacon? A distant porch light? None were close enough. I drove those roads daily, eyes burning, searching for answers. The fields stared back, silent, their secrets buried deep. Townsfolk stopped meeting my gaze, their casseroles and pats on the shoulder feeling like apologies. My wife clung to his hoodie, her eyes hollow. I kept his phone charged, willing it to ring.
Every time I pass that ditch, I see his car, door open, keys glinting. I hear his voice—calm, then that sharp shout. What did he see? What was out there, in the dark, waiting? The countryside stretches on, vast and quiet, holding him somewhere I can’t reach, and the fear grows colder every day, whispering I’ll never know.
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