"Silent Fields":
I was 10 years old, living on our farm in Pampa, Texas, when everything I knew was taken away. Our house sat alone in the middle of endless fields, with golden wheat stretching out as far as I could see. The house was old, its white paint peeling, and the wooden floors creaked with every step. At night, the walls seemed to hum with secrets, but I always felt safe with my family—Mom, my stepdad Brian, and my brother Zach. That night, though, safety disappeared like dust in the wind.
It started like any other evening. We were gathered around the kitchen table, eating spaghetti. The smell of tomato sauce filled the air, and Mom had sprinkled extra parmesan on my plate, knowing it was my favorite. The table was covered with a checkered cloth, and a single bulb hung above, casting soft shadows on the walls. Brian was talking about his day at the oil rig, his voice loud and cheerful. “This new pump they brought in, it’s a monster,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Took me and two other guys all morning to figure out why it kept jamming.”
Zach, who was 14 and always trying to sound grown-up, smirked. “Bet I could’ve fixed it in half the time,” he said, twirling his fork in his noodles. I giggled, kicking him lightly under the table. His sneakers nudged me back, and I stuck out my tongue.
“Both of you, settle down,” Mom said, but her eyes were warm, crinkling at the corners. She reached over and tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear. “You’re getting sauce on your chin, sweetheart.”
I wiped my face with a napkin, feeling a little embarrassed but happy. “Can I have seconds?” I asked, holding up my plate.
“You’re a bottomless pit,” Brian teased, but he scooped more spaghetti from the pot and plopped it onto my plate. “Eat up, kiddo.”
After dinner, I helped Mom with the dishes. The sink was full of soapy water, and I stood on a little stool to reach the counter. The plates clinked as I dried them, and Mom hummed a tune I didn’t know. “You’re getting so good at this,” she said, handing me a wet glass. “Pretty soon, you’ll be running this kitchen.”
I grinned, feeling grown-up as I stretched to put the glass in the cupboard. “Maybe I’ll make dinner tomorrow,” I said.
“Oh, really?” Mom laughed. “What’s on the menu?”
“Pizza!” I said, and she laughed again, her voice soft and warm.
When we finished, I went to my room at the end of the hall. My bed was pushed against the wall, covered with a quilt Mom had made, all patches of blue and yellow. I climbed under the covers with my favorite book, a dog-eared copy of a mystery story about a girl detective. The words blurred as my eyes got heavy, and I fell asleep with the book open on my chest, the lamp still glowing on my nightstand.
I don’t know what time it was when I woke up, but the house was quiet—too quiet. Then came my mother’s scream, sharp and raw, slicing through the darkness. It was followed by a sound I’ll never forget: a loud boom, like thunder trapped inside the house. Then another. And another. Gunshots. My heart slammed against my ribs, and I sat up, clutching my blanket so tight my knuckles hurt. My room was dark except for the faint glow of the lamp, and shadows danced on the walls like monsters.
I wanted to run to Mom, to find out what was happening, but my body wouldn’t move. I just sat there, frozen, listening. The house was old, and every sound carried—creaking floorboards, the faint groan of pipes. But now, I heard something else: heavy footsteps, slow and deliberate, coming down the hall. Each step made the floor squeak, getting closer and closer to my room.
I slid under the covers, pulling them over my head like they could hide me. My breath was loud in my ears, and I tried to hold it, to make myself small and silent. The footsteps stopped outside my door. I heard the doorknob rattle, then a loud bang as the door flew open, slamming against the wall. I peeked out from under the blanket, just enough to see.
A man stood in the doorway. He was tall, dressed in dark clothes—a black jacket and jeans that looked dirty. His face was hard, his jaw tight, and his eyes were empty, like he wasn’t human. He held a big gun, the kind hunters used, its barrel glinting in the lamplight. He looked at me, his head tilting slightly, like he was deciding something. I didn’t think—I just acted. I let my body go limp, falling back onto the bed, my eyes half-closed. I held my breath, praying he’d think I was already gone.
He took a step closer, his boots loud on the wooden floor. I could smell him now—sweat and something sharp, like gasoline. He stood over me, so close I could hear his breathing, rough and uneven. My heart pounded so hard I was sure he’d hear it. I kept my eyes slitted, watching his shadow loom over me. Then he raised the gun.
The shot was deafening, a roar that made my ears ring. The bullet tore through the air, missing my head by inches and hitting the wall behind me. Plaster dust sprinkled onto my face, but I didn’t move. I didn’t blink. I stayed still, my body stiff, pretending to be dead. He stood there for a long moment, his shadow blocking the light. I thought he’d shoot again, but he didn’t. He muttered something under his breath, too low for me to hear, and turned away. His footsteps echoed as he walked out, the floor creaking under his weight.
I didn’t move, not even when I heard him rummaging through the house. Drawers slammed, glass shattered, and something heavy thudded to the floor. Every sound made me flinch, but I stayed still, my muscles aching from holding the same position. I kept thinking he’d come back, that he’d know I was alive. The house felt alive with danger, every creak and groan making my stomach twist.
Finally, I heard the front door slam shut. The silence that followed was worse than the noise. It was thick, heavy, like the house was holding its breath too. I waited, counting to a hundred in my head, then two hundred, just to be sure he was gone. Slowly, I opened my eyes and sat up, my whole body trembling. My room looked wrong in the dim light—my book was on the floor, the lamp casting long shadows that twisted like fingers.
I slid out of bed, my bare feet cold against the floorboards. They creaked under me, and I froze, terrified he’d hear. But the house stayed quiet. I tiptoed to the hallway, my nightgown brushing against my legs. The air smelled wrong, like metal and something bitter. I didn’t want to know what it was.
I went to my parents’ room first, my heart pounding so hard it hurt. The door was half-open, and I pushed it gently, the hinges squeaking. Inside, I saw them—Mom and Brian, lying on the floor near their bed. Blood was everywhere, dark and shiny, pooling around them like spilled paint. Mom’s eyes were open, staring at nothing, her hand stretched out like she’d been reaching for something. Brian was slumped against the wall, his head tilted at a strange angle. I wanted to scream, to run to them, but my legs wouldn’t move. I just stood there, tears burning my eyes, my breath coming in short gasps.
“Mom?” I whispered, even though I knew she couldn’t answer. “Brian?”
No response. Just silence.
I backed away, my hands shaking, and ran to Zach’s room. His door was closed, and I pushed it open, praying he was okay. “Zach?” I said, my voice small. He was in his bed, his blanket pulled up to his chest. For a second, I thought he was sleeping. Then I saw the dark stain spreading across his shirt, soaking the fabric. I touched his shoulder, shaking him gently. “Zach, wake up,” I said, louder now. “Please.”
He didn’t move. His face was pale, his eyes closed. I sank to the floor beside his bed, sobbing, my hands covering my face. My family was gone. All of them.
I don’t know how long I sat there, but I knew I had to get help. I forced myself to stand, my legs wobbly, and made my way to the living room. The house felt different now, like it wasn’t mine anymore. The furniture was the same—the old couch, the coffee table with Zach’s comic books scattered on it—but it all felt wrong. I stepped in something wet and looked down. Blood. A trail of it led from the hallway to the front door. I gagged and looked away, my stomach churning.
I grabbed the phone from the coffee table, my fingers fumbling with the buttons. I dialed 911, the beeps loud in the quiet house. A woman answered, her voice calm but urgent. “911, what’s your emergency?”
“There’s a man,” I said, my voice shaking so bad I could barely talk. “He had a gun. He… he shot my family. I think they’re dead.”
“Okay, honey, stay calm,” she said. “Can you tell me your address?”
I told her, my voice cracking. “It’s 1234 County Road, Pampa. Please, you have to come quick.”
“Are you safe right now?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, looking around the dark living room. “He left, but I’m scared he’s coming back.”
“Help is on the way,” she said. “Stay on the line with me, okay? Can you find a safe place to hide?”
I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. “Okay,” I whispered. I didn’t want to stay in the house. It felt like the walls were watching me, like the man was still there, hiding somewhere. I grabbed the phone, its cord stretching as I walked to the front door. I stepped outside onto the porch, the wooden boards cold under my feet. The fields around the house were dark, the wheat swaying like ghosts. I sat on the steps, pulling my knees to my chest, still holding the phone.
“Are you still there?” the woman asked.
“Yeah,” I said, my teeth chattering. “I’m outside.”
“Good,” she said. “The police are almost there. Just stay with me.”
Every sound made me jump—the rustle of the wheat, the creak of the porch swing moving in the breeze. I kept imagining the man’s face, his cold eyes, the way he’d looked at me. What if he was still out there, watching? What if he knew I was alive?
“How far are they?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
“Two minutes,” she said. “You’re doing great, honey. Just hold on.”
I clutched the phone tighter, my eyes scanning the darkness. The fields seemed to stretch forever, hiding who-knows-what in their shadows. I thought about Mom’s laugh, Brian’s silly jokes, Zach’s teasing. They were gone, and I was alone. The thought made my chest ache so bad I could hardly breathe.
Finally, I saw headlights in the distance, cutting through the dark. Police cars pulled up, their lights flashing red and blue, painting the house in eerie colors. Officers jumped out, some running inside with their guns drawn, others shouting orders I couldn’t understand. A woman officer came to me, her face kind but serious. She knelt down, her badge glinting in the light. “You’re safe now,” she said, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders. “We’re here.”
I wanted to believe her, but I didn’t feel safe. My family was gone, and the house that used to be home was now a place of nightmares. I looked back at it, its windows dark and empty, and I knew I’d never feel safe again.
"The Phantom Strikes Again":
In the spring of 1946, Texarkana was a town under siege. A killer the newspapers called the Phantom stalked the night, targeting young couples parked on quiet lovers’ lanes. He wore a white mask with holes cut for eyes and mouth, carried a pistol, and left death or devastation behind. Three attacks had already happened, leaving four dead and two barely alive. The town was paralyzed with fear—folks locked their doors, kept lights burning all night, and carried guns everywhere. Whispers of the Phantom filled every conversation, from the general store to church pews.
I lived on a small farm a mile outside Texarkana, Texas, near the Arkansas line, close to Virgil and Katie Starks’ place. Their farmhouse sat at the end of a dirt road, surrounded by fields of corn and soybeans, with a single oak tree in their yard casting long shadows at dusk. I’d known them for a decade. Virgil was a reserved man, broad-shouldered from years of plowing fields, always ready to lend a hand with a broken fence or a stubborn tractor. Katie was warm, her laughter contagious, often bringing over a basket of fresh-baked cornbread when she visited. We weren’t just neighbors; we were friends who shared Sunday dinners and stories about the war’s end.
That night, May 3, 1946, I was restless in my living room. The radio played softly, some big band tune, but I couldn’t focus. My old wooden chair creaked as I shifted, trying to read a worn copy of a farming almanac. The Phantom was all anyone talked about. The first attack, back in February, left Jimmy Hollis and Mary Jeanne Larey beaten and shaken but alive. The second, in March, took Richard Griffin and Polly Ann Moore, found dead in their car. Then, in April, Paul Martin and Betty Jo Booker were killed, their bodies left in Spring Lake Park. Each time, the killer struck under moonlight, vanishing without a trace.
I’d taken to keeping my shotgun propped against the wall, a box of shells nearby. My windows were locked, curtains drawn, but every sound outside—a branch snapping, a dog barking—made my heart skip. That night, around 9 p.m., I heard two sharp cracks split the air. Gunshots weren’t rare these days; folks were so scared they’d shoot at anything moving in the dark. I stood, peering through a gap in the curtains, seeing nothing but the black fields stretching toward the Starks’ place. I told myself it was probably just a hunter or a nervous neighbor.
Then came two more shots, closer together, unmistakable in their sharp, deadly rhythm. They came from the direction of Virgil and Katie’s farm. My stomach twisted. Something was wrong. I grabbed my shotgun, my hands sweaty, and stood frozen, debating whether to check on them. Their house was a ten-minute walk across the fields, and the thought of stepping into the night, with the Phantom out there, made my mouth go dry.
Before I could decide, a frantic pounding shook my front door. My heart slammed against my ribs as I gripped the shotgun tighter, edging toward the door. “Who’s there?” I called, my voice cracking.
“Help! Please, it’s me, Katie!” The voice was desperate, choked with pain.
I flung the door open, and there she was—Katie Starks, her face a mask of blood, her nightgown torn and stained. Her eyes were wide with terror, her jaw hanging wrong, like it was broken. Blood dripped from her nose and mouth, pooling on my porch. She swayed, clutching the doorframe, then collapsed into my arms.
“Katie, oh Lord, what happened?” I eased her to the floor, my hands shaking as I propped her against the wall. Her breathing was ragged, and I saw two bullet wounds—one near her cheek, another at her jawline—oozing blood.
She tried to speak, but her words were slurred, barely audible. “Virgil… he’s… he’s gone…”
“Stay with me, Katie,” I said, my voice trembling. I ran to the kitchen, grabbing a clean dish towel, and pressed it to her face to slow the bleeding. The cloth soaked through almost instantly. “What happened? Who did this?”
She winced, her eyes glassy with shock. “We were in the living room… Virgil was reading the paper by the lamp. I was sewing. Then… a noise outside, like someone stepping on the porch. Before we could move, shots came through the window. Glass everywhere. Virgil fell, and I felt pain in my face, like fire. I saw him… not moving… blood on the floor. I ran out the back door, through the fields, to you.”
Her words hit like a punch. The Phantom had come to their home, not a lovers’ lane. He’d shot through their window, bold as death itself. I glanced at my own windows, my skin crawling at the thought that he could be out there, watching, waiting.
I stumbled to the telephone, my hands fumbling with the receiver. “Operator, get me the sheriff, now!” I shouted. “There’s been a shooting at the Starks’ farm. Katie’s hurt bad!”
The operator’s voice was calm, maddeningly slow. “Connecting you now, sir.”
When Sheriff Max Tackett picked up, I didn’t wait for him to speak. “Max, it’s the Starks’ place! Katie’s here, shot in the face. Virgil might be dead. Send help quick!”
“We’re on our way,” Max said, his voice tight. “Stay put and keep her safe.”
I hung up and knelt beside Katie, holding her hand. Her fingers were cold, trembling. “The police are coming, Katie. You’re going to be okay.”
She nodded weakly, tears cutting tracks through the blood on her cheeks. “I didn’t see him,” she whispered. “Just the shots… and Virgil…”
I wanted to ask more, but her pain stopped me. I kept pressure on the towel, my mind racing. The Starks’ house was so isolated, surrounded by fields and darkness. How had the killer known they were there? Had he been watching them, planning this? The thought made me feel exposed, like my own walls were paper-thin.
Minutes later, sirens pierced the night, growing louder as red and blue lights flashed through my windows. Two deputies burst in, followed by a medic. The medic knelt beside Katie, his face grim as he examined her wounds.
“She’s lost a lot of blood,” he said, working quickly to bandage her face. “We need to get her to the hospital now.”
The deputies helped lift Katie onto a stretcher. One of them, a young man named Roy, turned to me. “You hear anything else out there? See anyone?”
“Just the shots,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Came from their place, four in all.”
Roy nodded, his jaw tight. “We’re heading over there now. Stay here, lock your doors.”
As they carried Katie to the ambulance, she grabbed my hand, her grip weak but desperate. “Don’t let him come back,” she whispered.
I squeezed her hand, my throat tight. “He won’t get you, Katie. I promise.”
But as the ambulance sped away, I wasn’t sure I could keep that promise. I locked the door, checked every window, and sat with my shotgun across my lap, staring into the dark. The killer was still out there, maybe hiding in the cornfields, his masked face grinning in the moonlight.
The next morning, word spread like wildfire. Virgil was dead, shot twice in the back of the head while sitting in his armchair. The bullets had come through the living room window, shattering the glass and leaving holes in the wall. Katie had been shot twice in the face but managed to crawl out the back door, stumbling through the fields to my house. The police found blood on the porch and a trail leading into the woods, but no footprints, no shell casings, nothing to identify the killer.
At the general store a few days later, the air was thick with fear and rumors. I overheard two farmers talking by the counter, their voices low.
“Heard they found a flashlight near the Starks’ place,” one said, adjusting his hat. “Think it’s the Phantom’s?”
“Could be,” the other replied. “But what good’s a flashlight if he’s a ghost in the night?”
I joined them, unable to stay quiet. “It’s no ghost. It’s a man, and he’s still out there.”
They nodded, their faces pale. The store clerk, an older woman named Clara, chimed in. “My cousin in Arkansas says folks are sleeping with rifles now. Some are leaving town altogether.”
That afternoon, I visited the sheriff’s office to check on the investigation. Max Tackett was there, papers scattered across his desk, his eyes red from lack of sleep.
“Any leads, Max?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe.
He sighed, rubbing his temples. “We’ve got nothing solid. Questioned over a hundred people, checked every car on the road that night. We found that flashlight you heard about, but no one’s claimed it. Could be the killer’s, could be a kid’s. We just don’t know.”
“What about Youell Swinney?” I asked. The name had been floating around town—a local thief suspected of worse crimes.
Max leaned back, his chair creaking. “We’ve got him in custody for stealing cars. His wife says he was with her during the attacks, but she’s changed her story twice. Without evidence, we can’t hold him for murder.”
I left the office feeling heavy. The Phantom had struck four times, and we were no closer to catching him. The town felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for the next attack.
Weeks turned into months, and the murders stopped as suddenly as they’d started. Some said the Phantom had fled Texarkana, maybe to another state. Others thought he’d been jailed for some petty crime, or maybe he’d died. But no one knew for sure. The police questioned nearly 400 people, followed every lead, even printed a picture of that flashlight in the newspaper, hoping someone would recognize it. Nothing came of it.
Katie survived, but her life was never the same. Her jaw was shattered, her face scarred. After Virgil’s funeral, she sold the farm and moved to live with family in Louisiana. I saw her once before she left, at the church where we used to share potlucks. Her eyes were hollow, her smile gone.
“I can’t stay here,” she told me, her voice soft. “Every time I close my eyes, I see him falling, hear those shots.”
I hugged her, wishing I could say something to ease her pain. “You’re strong, Katie. You’ll find peace.”
She nodded, but I could tell she didn’t believe me.
I still live on my farm, though I’ve added locks to every door and window. The fields around my house, once a place of comfort, now feel like a trap waiting to spring. At night, when the wind rustles the corn or a branch taps the roof, I grip my shotgun, my heart racing. I think of Virgil, slumped in his chair, and Katie, running through the dark, her face torn by bullets.
The Phantom was never caught. His shadow lingers over Texarkana, a ghost we made real with our fear. Sometimes, in the quiet, I swear I hear those gunshots again, echoing across the fields, reminding me that some nightmares never end.
"The Poisoned Calves":
I heard the cow’s cry that afternoon, a sound that chilled me to the bone. It was a wail of loss, of grief, that only a mother can make when her calf is gone. I was in the barn, fixing a fence, when it reached me—a deep, mournful moan that I knew all too well. I dropped my tools and ran toward the pasture, my boots crunching on the dry earth. As I crested the hill, I saw her by the pond, standing over something. I quickened my pace, and as I got closer, I saw it—the body of her calf, lying still on the ground.
I knelt beside it, hoping against hope that it was just sleeping, but I knew better. Its eyes were open, lifeless, and there was no sign of what had killed it. No blood, no wounds, just death. I called the vet, Dr. Spencer, who came out that same day. He performed a necropsy and found something alarming—grains of toxic fertilizer in its stomach. Someone had poisoned my calf.
That was February 2014, the start of a nightmare that wouldn’t end. Over the next four years, I lost 18 more calves, all in the same way. Each time, I’d find them dead, with no explanation, until the vet confirmed the same poison. The sheriff’s office, game wardens, even a special ranger from the Texas and Southwestern Cattle Raisers Association—they all came, took samples, asked questions, but no one could find who was doing this or why.
I started to feel like I was being watched, like someone was out there, in the shadows of my own land, waiting to strike again. I’d walk the perimeter at night, my flashlight cutting through the darkness, listening for any sound that didn’t belong. But there was nothing—no footprints, no tire tracks, no broken fences. It was as if a ghost was haunting my ranch, but I knew better. This was no ghost. This was human, and that made it worse.
My daughters were worried. One evening, as we sat on the porch watching the sun set over the hills, Emily spoke up. “Dad, maybe you should sell the place,” she said, her voice trembling. “This place—it’s not safe anymore.”
I shook my head. “This is our home, Emily. Your great-grandfather built this ranch with his own hands. I can’t just walk away.”
“But at what cost?” she asked, her eyes filling with tears. “Your health, your peace of mind? It’s not worth it.”
I didn’t have an answer for her. All I knew was that I couldn’t give up, not yet.
This ranch, 112 acres of rolling hills and pine trees in the heart of East Texas, had always been my sanctuary. My family had owned this land for over a century. I’d grown up here, learned to ride horses and rope cattle here. My grandfather and great-grandfather worked this soil, raised cattle here. Now, it felt like a battleground, tainted by an unseen enemy.
Every night, I’d patrol the property, my old dog, Rusty, by my side. The moon cast long shadows across the fields, and every rustle of the grass made me jump. I’d shine my flashlight into the darkness, half-expecting to see a figure darting away. But there was never anyone there.
One night, I thought I saw something—a shape, moving near the barn. I called out, “Who’s there?” but only silence answered. I approached cautiously, my heart racing, my hand on the rifle I now carried everywhere. When I got there, it was just a plastic bag caught in the wind. I laughed at myself, but the laughter was hollow. The fear was real, and it was growing.
The next morning, I found another calf dead. Its mother was nuzzling it, trying to get it to stand, but it was no use. I could see the foam around its mouth, the telltale sign of the poison. I felt a rage build inside me, a helplessness that I couldn’t protect my own animals on my own land.
I went to the sheriff’s office again. Deputy Johnson was handling the case. He was a young guy, eager, but I could see the frustration in his eyes.
“Buck, we’ve checked all the usual suspects,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “No one’s talking, and there’s no evidence. It’s like this person’s a ghost.”
“I know,” I replied, “but someone’s doing this. Someone hates me enough to kill my livestock, slowly, one by one.”
He sighed. “We’ll keep looking. Maybe set up some cameras, see if we can catch this person in the act.”
But deep down, I knew that might not help. Whoever was doing this was careful, too careful.
As I left the station, I saw Tommy, a guy I’d fired a few years back for slacking off. He was sitting on a bench outside, smoking a cigarette. Our eyes met, and for a moment, I thought–
I saw something—guilt, maybe, or defiance. But then he looked away, and I kept walking. I couldn’t accuse him without proof, and I had none. But the thought lingered in my mind. Could it be him? Or was it someone else—a neighbor I’d argued with over a fence line, a parolee who’d moved nearby, or just some stranger with a grudge I didn’t even know about?
Christmas that year was tough. My daughters and grandkids came over, and we tried to make it joyful, but the shadow of the dead calves hung over us. My grandson, wide-eyed, asked, “Grandpa, why are the cows dying?”
I struggled to answer. “Sometimes bad things happen, son. But we’re working on it. The police are trying to find out who’s doing this.”
Later, Emily pulled me aside. “Dad, maybe it’s time to think about selling. This place—it’s not safe anymore.”
I shook my head again. “This is our home, Emily. I can’t let some coward drive me off my land.”
“But at what cost?” she asked, her voice breaking. “Your health, your peace of mind? It’s not worth it.”
I didn’t have an answer for her. All I knew was that I couldn’t give up, not yet.
One evening, as I was feeding the cattle, I noticed something odd—a fresh set of tire tracks leading to the back of the property. They didn’t belong to any of my vehicles. My heart skipped a beat. Finally, a lead.
I followed the tracks, which stopped near the fence line. There, half-buried in the dirt, was a small bag. I picked it up carefully—it was filled with the same toxic grain that had killed my calves. My hands shook as I held it, hope and fear mixing in my chest. This was it, I thought, the clue we’d been waiting for.
I rushed to the sheriff’s office, my heart pounding with anticipation. But when they analyzed the bag, they found no fingerprints, no DNA, nothing that could point to a suspect. It was as if the bag had appeared out of thin air.
That night, I sat on the porch, staring at the stars, wondering if I’d ever know the truth. The ranch, once my pride and joy, now felt like a prison, trapping me in this endless cycle of death and mystery. Every creak of the house, every howl of the wind, made me wonder if the person responsible was out there, watching, waiting for the next chance to strike.
I thought about the possibilities. Was it Tommy, seeking revenge for being fired? Was it my neighbor, bitter over our old property dispute? Or was it someone I didn’t even know, someone who hated me for reasons I couldn’t fathom? The not knowing was the worst part. It gnawed at me, kept me awake at night, made me question every shadow, every sound.
On Christmas Eve 2017, I found another dead calf. I posted about it online, and the story spread—thousands shared it, offering help, theories, even wild ideas about cults or vandals. But still, no answers. The mystery grew, and so did my fear.
Sometimes, I’d sit on the porch at night, looking out over the land I loved—the rolling hills, the old oak trees, the pond where I used to fish as a boy. It was all tainted now, poisoned by this unseen enemy. I wondered if I’d ever feel safe again, if my family would ever know peace.
But I won’t let this person win. Whoever is doing this, they want me to give up, to leave this land. But I won’t. This is my home, my legacy, and I’ll defend it, even if it means living with this shadow over me. Maybe one day, the truth will come out. Until then, I’ll keep watching, waiting, hoping that justice will prevail.