"The Creek Between Us":
My husband, James, and I had lived on that patch of land in the Colorado hills for over a decade. Out there, time moved slower. The mornings smelled like pine sap and cold air, and at night, the coyotes cried somewhere beyond the ridges. It was the kind of place where you could go days without seeing another person. We liked it that way. It was quiet, simple, and honest.
Then Harlan moved in.
His property bordered ours on the west side, where the creek cut through the valley like a silver scar. The boundary was always a little fuzzy—old wire fences half-buried in weeds, markers lost to the snow and floods. But when Harlan arrived three years ago, those uncertainties turned into arguments. He was the kind of man who didn’t talk so much as bark. If he thought something was his, he’d take it—whether that was a fallen tree, a deer, or a strip of grass on our side of the creek.
We called the sheriff more times than I can count. Every time it ended the same way: “Try to talk it out,” they’d say. Easy words when you didn’t have to live next to him.
Last fall, we decided to settle it once and for all. Our friends Rob and Beth, who owned the adjoining plot, had finally hired a surveyor named Tom to draw the real lines—officially, on record. We figured that would end the shouting and the threats.
It was one of those cold afternoons when the light starts fading early, even though it’s barely past noon. We all met where the grass met the woods, the kind of quiet spot where you can hear your own heartbeat. Tom came with his orange vest, a clipboard, and those tall tripods that make everything look official. Rob handed him a folder full of old deeds, yellowed and creased from the county archives.
“This should do it,” Rob said, clapping Tom on the shoulder. “We’ve been dealing with this nonsense long enough.”
Beth crossed her arms, glancing toward the pines that hid Harlan’s cabin. “He was over here again last week,” she said. “Rifle on his back. I’m not taking chances anymore.”
I followed her gaze. No movement. Just trees swaying and the faint shimmer of the creek below. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that we weren’t alone.
James must have noticed me looking. He squeezed my hand and said, quietly, “It’ll be fine, Simone. We’re just measuring dirt.”
Tom set up his gear, pacing the land in wide steps, his measuring tape glinting in the light. The rest of us followed along, marking spots with orange flags. The air felt still—too still. No wind, no birds, just that uneasy quiet that presses on your ears.
To fill it, we talked about anything but Harlan—about Rob and Beth’s new roof, about the upcoming holidays. But every now and then, Rob would stop mid-sentence and stare toward the tree line, his face tightening.
“You think he’ll show?” Beth whispered.
Rob shrugged. “If he does, we’ll handle it. We’re not doing anything wrong.”
About an hour later, Tom called us over near the creek. “Here it is,” he said, brushing aside a tangle of roots. “The old marker—see that? According to the deed, your boundary runs straight through to that big boulder there.”
James knelt, running his fingers through the dirt. “That means Harlan’s shed is built on our side,” he said with a humorless laugh. “Figures.”
We were still laughing when the sound came—branches snapping, slow and deliberate.
I turned toward the woods. A figure stepped out from the shadow between the pines. Harlan. His face was red from the cold or maybe from rage. His rifle was slung across his shoulder, but his hands were balled into fists.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing on my land?” His voice carried across the clearing, loud enough to startle a crow from a tree.
Rob stepped forward, keeping his voice even. “We’re surveying the boundary, Harlan. These are official records. Tom’s got the paperwork right here.”
Harlan spat into the dirt. “Deeds don’t mean a damn thing. You’ve been trespassing on me for years. I see you out here, sneaking around like I don’t notice.”
Beth spoke up, her tone steady but cautious. “We’re not trespassing. The sheriff knows about this. Let’s just get the measurements done, and everyone can see the results.”
Harlan’s eyes flicked to Tom, who froze mid-step. “You the one stirring this up?” he said. “Pack up and leave, now, before there’s trouble.”
Tom raised both hands a little. “Sir, I’m just doing my job. I’m not here to cause problems.”
“Measure what? Lies?” Harlan took a step forward. His voice had dropped now, low and thick, like something dangerous trying to hold itself back.
James moved closer to me, murmuring, “Stay behind me.” I could feel his heartbeat against my arm.
Rob held up the papers. “Harlan, listen. We’re not trying to take anything from you. We just want this settled.”
Harlan laughed, a short, broken sound. “Settled? You steal my water, park your junk on my grass, and then drag some outsider out here to redraw my property? You think I’ll let that stand?”
Beth’s voice trembled but she didn’t back down. “That’s not true, Harlan. The records—”
“Shut up!” he shouted, and swung the rifle down.
The muzzle pointed toward the ground, but it was enough. The air snapped tight like a wire pulled too far.
“Hey, easy,” Tom said softly. “Let’s just all calm down.”
Harlan’s eyes were wild. “You called the cops on me last week,” he said to Rob. “Told them I was hunting on your land. You think I forgot that?”
Rob didn’t flinch. “We’re not on your land. You’re the one crossing over. Tom’s measurements prove it. Put the gun down.”
But Harlan didn’t move. His breathing was heavy, his knuckles white on the rifle’s grip. The sound of the creek was the only thing between us and whatever was about to happen.
Then he said, quiet and final:
“You’re trespassing right now.”
The rifle cracked.
Rob staggered, his hand pressed to his chest. The second shot came before Beth could even scream. She dropped beside him, calling his name, but it was no use.
Tom turned to run. A third shot cut him down before he reached the trees.
James pulled me by the arm. “Run, Simone! Get down!”
The world blurred. The smell of gunpowder burned in my nose. We dove behind a boulder as another shot tore bark from a tree above us. James shoved me lower. “Stay here,” he whispered. “Don’t move.”
I peeked over the rock just long enough to see Harlan stalking forward, slow and methodical, his boots crunching in the dry grass. “You think you can steal from me?” he shouted. “You think you can take what’s mine?”
James took a deep breath. “I love you,” he said. Then he stood. “Harlan, stop! Please, just stop!”
The rifle roared again.
James fell back, eyes wide, blood spilling through his shirt. I caught him as he went down, choking on my own scream. “James—no—”
Harlan’s shadow fell across us. His voice was flat now, empty. “You too. Trespassing bitch.”
I begged him not to. I don’t even remember what I said—just the sound of my own voice shaking.
The shot burned through my side. I hit the dirt, the sky spinning above me.
He turned and walked away. Just like that.
The world went quiet again. Only the creek kept running, steady and indifferent. Rob and Beth were still. Tom lay facedown in the grass. James’s breathing slowed beside me, fading until there was nothing.
I don’t know how I found the strength, but I reached for my phone, my fingers slick with blood, and somehow managed to dial 911. “Help,” I whispered. “Shot… property line… Harlan…”
The operator’s voice was calm, far away, asking me to stay on the line. I remember the sirens faint in the distance before everything went black.
I lived. Barely. The doctors said the bullet missed my spine by an inch. But James didn’t make it. Neither did Rob, Beth, or Tom.
All that over a strip of land—some dirt, a creek, a few trees.
Every night since, when I close my eyes, I still see Harlan stepping out of those woods, his rifle catching the light, his face set like stone. The silence before the first shot always feels louder than the gunfire that followed.
"Private Property, Public Fear":
My partner David and I had been searching for months before we found the place — a cozy, two-bedroom home tucked at the edge of a quiet town in the Rockies. A narrow dirt road wound through pine and aspen to get there, the kind of road where cell service dropped and the world felt far away. Out back, a small creek cut through the yard, the water tumbling over smooth stones before slipping into the forest beyond. The real estate agent called it a “hidden gem.” We agreed.
We made an offer that same evening, half afraid someone else would snatch it first. By some miracle, it was accepted. We moved in just as spring began to push the last of winter away. The air still had a chill, but the light was longer, hopeful. Boxes piled up in every corner, and we spent the first week unpacking late into the night, laughing over takeout and how, after years of renting apartments with paper-thin walls, we finally had a space that was ours.
In those first days, everything felt right. Mornings, I’d step outside barefoot with my coffee, watching the mist rise off the creek. I started imagining where I’d plant wildflowers along the banks, maybe a little bench near the bend. It felt like the start of something good — something we’d waited a long time for.
Then, one afternoon while unpacking the kitchen, I glanced out the window and froze. Two people — a man and a woman, middle-aged — were sitting by the creek. They’d brought folding chairs and fishing poles, lines trailing into the water. I watched them for a moment, expecting they’d notice me, maybe wave. They didn’t. They just sat there quietly, as though they belonged.
I figured they’d wandered over from the park next door — it shared a fence line with our property. But according to our survey, the creek was clearly on our side. I decided not to make a fuss. Maybe it was a one-time thing.
It wasn’t.
The next day, a family of four arrived just before noon. Kids splashing in the shallows, parents spreading a blanket like it was a picnic spot. I hesitated, then went outside, waving politely.
“Hi there,” I called. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
The father, a broad-shouldered man with a beard and a faded baseball cap, looked up. “Afternoon,” he said flatly.
“I’m the new owner,” I explained, smiling. “Just moved in a few days ago. Didn’t expect company back here.”
He studied me for a long moment, then shrugged. “We’ve been coming to this spot for years. Old folks who lived here didn’t mind. Creek’s perfect for the kids.”
I felt a flicker of discomfort. “Well, it’s actually part of our property now,” I said gently. “Maybe you could stick to the park side?”
His wife folded her arms. “Park side’s all rocks and weeds. This is the good part. Everyone uses it. You new around here?”
“Yes, just moved in,” I said, still trying to sound friendly. “I understand it’s been open before, but we’d like a little privacy. Maybe just for today?”
The man muttered something under his breath but eventually packed up, the kids whining as they left. As they walked off, the woman turned back. “You might wanna check with the town,” she called. “This ain’t just yours.”
That night, I told David over dinner. He brushed it off. “Probably harmless. Small towns have their habits.”
But it didn’t stop.
By the weekend, a crowd had gathered — eight, maybe ten people — carrying coolers, beach chairs, and Bluetooth speakers. Music drifted up from the creek, laughter echoing across our yard. My stomach twisted as I walked out again.
“Excuse me,” I said. A woman in mirrored sunglasses turned toward me, her expression sharp.
“Can I help you?” she asked, as if I were trespassing.
“This is private property,” I said. “The creek runs through our land. Please move to the park.”
A tall man stood, hands on his hips. “Lady, we’ve been fishing here since we were kids. The old owners said it was fine. You can’t just show up and kick us out.”
“I have the survey right here,” I said, showing my phone. “The line runs directly along the park fence.”
He smirked. “Legal don’t mean right. This creek belongs to the community. You outsiders buy land and think you own the mountain too.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the group. Someone muttered, “You’ll regret it.”
I backed away. They stayed another hour, leaving empty cans floating in the water.
The next morning, David and I ordered No Trespassing signs — bright yellow, metal, unmistakable. We posted them along the fence and near the creek. It felt defiant, like drawing a line in the sand.
By morning, one of the signs had been bent nearly in half.
People kept coming. Some ignored the signs, stepping right over them. “Please respect the property!” I shouted from the porch one afternoon.
A woman yelled back, “Or what? You gonna call the cops on families?”
David and I visited the neighbors. Most were polite but cold. An older woman told us, “That creek’s been open to everyone for generations. Best not stir things up.” Another man, arms crossed, said, “You bought the house, you bought the history. Deal with it.”
By midsummer, the crowds swelled — twenty, thirty people on hot days. Kids running wild, adults drinking and tossing cans into the grass. The air was filled with laughter that no longer sounded cheerful, just invasive. I began keeping the blinds drawn, heart pounding at every sound outside.
Then came the first note.
It was tucked under a stone near the creek: Leave the creek alone or leave town.
I showed it to David. His face went pale. “This is getting out of hand.”
We called the sheriff’s office. A deputy came, looked around, shrugged. “Without catching them in the act, not much we can do. Maybe put up a fence.”
We couldn’t afford a full fence, but we strung wire along the edge. That night, I barely slept. Every creak of the house made me tense. Around midnight, I heard voices — low, whispering — near the water. Flashlights flickered between the trees.
“David,” I whispered. “Someone’s out there.”
He grabbed a flashlight and went to the back door. “Hey!” he shouted. The voices scattered. When he returned, the wire was cut in three places.
The next day, I went to town hall, survey in hand. The clerk directed me to a county commissioner — an older man with a hard face and the weary calm of someone used to arguments.
“We’ve had complaints,” he said. “Folks say you blocked access to a community spot.”
“It’s not community land,” I said, trying to keep steady. “The title is clear. It’s ours.”
He sighed. “Maybe so. But history matters here. The previous owners let everyone use it. That creates expectations.”
Expectations. The word stuck with me like a splinter.
After that, the hostility became open. People pointed as I walked through town. A woman at the grocery store whispered to her friend, “That’s her — the one who closed off the creek.”
Another note appeared: Watch your back.
Then, one evening while watering plants, I saw him — the tall man from before, walking up from the park. His face was red, angry.
“You happy now?” he barked. “Ruining everyone’s summer?”
“Please leave,” I said quietly.
“You don’t belong here,” he said, stepping closer. “Keep this up and it’ll get ugly.”
He left, but I locked every door that night. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Weeks blurred together. The town filed a claim, citing an old easement law. Lawyers drained our savings. The hostility never stopped — smashed mailbox, slashed tires, glares everywhere we went. I started dreaming of the creek — the sound of the water turning into whispers, dozens of voices chanting beneath the surface. Sometimes, I’d wake in the dark certain someone was standing outside.
Eventually, we settled. Sold a strip of the land to the county. They fenced it off, built a little footbridge, and called it Creekside Commons. The crowds returned — but stayed on their side this time. Our yard was finally quiet.
Still, I never felt peace again.
Even now, when I hear water running, I tense. The creek flows the same as it always did — bright, cold, beautiful — but to me, it sounds different. Like it remembers what happened. Like it’s whispering that nothing you own ever truly belongs to you — not the land, not the peace, not even your safety.
Because sometimes, when the wind shifts just right, I can swear I still hear them down there — laughing, somewhere past the dark trees, just beyond the fence.
"Behind the Fence":
I moved to that quiet valley a few months back, hoping to find peace after a brutal year in the city. My nerves were shot; I needed somewhere quiet, somewhere I could breathe again. The house I bought was small but perfect—tucked at the end of a winding dirt road with pine trees crowding close, their branches whispering against the roof when the wind picked up. There were only two other homes nearby, and the silence between us felt like freedom.
One neighbor was an older man named Harold who lived farther up the hill, in a creaking two-story place that looked like it had been standing there long before the rest of us. From the start, something about him felt wrong. He never waved back, never smiled. Just stood on his porch, staring. Sometimes I’d look up from my morning coffee and see him there, motionless, like a figure carved from the gloom.
Our properties shared a narrow driveway, split by a gravel strip that led to my garage. That’s where the trouble started.
At first, it was small things—handwritten notes tucked under my windshield wiper, the paper damp with dew. Messages scrawled in a shaky hand: Don’t park past the line. Stay off what’s mine.
The real estate agent had mentioned a minor boundary issue when I bought the place—something about an old survey dispute—but I’d assumed it was just bureaucratic nonsense. The latest maps showed that the strip was mine to access. I figured Harold was just territorial and that we’d eventually sort it out like reasonable adults.
I was wrong.
One afternoon, while trimming a bush near the edge, Harold appeared at his fence. His face was flushed, eyes hard and distant.
“You’re on my land,” he said quietly.
I straightened up. “I don’t think so. This is my yard. I’ve got the survey if you want to check.”
“I’ve checked,” he said, his tone colder now. “You people always push. Step back before there’s trouble.”
You people? I wanted to ask what he meant, but something in his stare froze the words in my throat. I backed away.
That night, my dog started growling at the window, hackles raised. When I went outside with a flashlight, the woods looked still, but I could feel eyes on me. In the morning, I found a long scratch running down my car door, deep enough to bare the metal beneath the paint.
I wanted to believe it was kids or a random vandal, but I knew better.
A week later, my sister Lena came over for dinner. We grilled out back, trying to enjoy the crisp mountain air. We were laughing about something when Harold’s voice carried down the hill, deep and harsh.
“Keep it down! And stay off my property!”
Lena frowned. “What the hell was that?”
“Harold,” I said. “He’s obsessed with this stupid boundary. Thinks I’m stealing part of his land.”
She laughed. “Old guys and their fences. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”
But I couldn’t laugh it off anymore.
When she left that night, her jacket fell near the edge of the strip. She stepped a few feet over to grab it—and Harold was there, like he’d been waiting. A flashlight beam hit her square in the face.
“Trespassing!” he shouted. “You think I don’t see? You’ll regret this!”
Lena froze. “It was an accident, sir—”
“Accidents have consequences.” He stepped closer, his voice almost a growl.
I ran over, heart pounding. “Leave her alone, Harold! She’s leaving.”
He turned that glare on me. “This isn’t over.” Then he vanished into the dark like smoke.
The next morning, my mailbox was smashed to pieces.
I started locking up earlier, checking my doors twice. I’d catch glimpses of Harold in his yard at night—planting things, rearranging rocks along the edge, building invisible walls between us. When I called the county, they said it was a civil matter.
“Get a lawyer,” they told me.
So I did. Tom, my lawyer, looked over the paperwork and frowned. “You’re legally in the clear,” he said, “but this guy sounds unstable. Document everything.”
Tom sent Harold a letter, polite but firm, asking him to stop blocking the shared access. Harold never replied. Instead, he planted a line of shrubs right down the middle of the strip—like a living barricade. I couldn’t even get my car to the garage without plowing through them.
That evening, I confronted him. He was out watering his yard with a rusty metal can.
“Harold, we need to settle this,” I said, trying to sound calm. “You’re blocking my access. The deeds are clear.”
He turned slowly. “You’ve been invading my space since the day you got here. I know your type.”
“My type?”
He smiled faintly. “The kind that ends up sorry.”
I didn’t sleep that night. Every creak of the house felt like a footstep. Every shadow outside looked like him.
A few days later, my cat went missing. I searched until dawn, calling her name through the mist. I found her by the road that morning—still, small, her body twisted unnaturally. There was foam on her lips. I didn’t need a vet to tell me what happened.
I buried her under the old maple tree, hands shaking so badly I could barely hold the shovel. When I looked up, I saw Harold watching from his porch, his face unreadable behind the screen door.
Tom told me to file for a restraining order. I promised I would. But Harold moved faster.
When I came home two days later, there was a boulder—massive, gray, easily a ton—sitting squarely in the middle of that narrow strip. I couldn’t even pull into my garage.
Rage took over. I grabbed a shovel and started digging around it, trying to loosen the earth. That’s when my friend Jake pulled up—he’d been planning to help me fix a gutter.
“What the hell is that?” he asked.
“Harold’s latest move,” I said through gritted teeth. “Help me push it aside.”
We worked together, sweat pouring, the air thick and silent except for the scrape of metal on stone. The boulder shifted a few inches. Then—
“Stop that!”
Harold’s voice rang out sharp as a whip. He was walking down the hill, face twisted, hands clenched. Something heavy was tucked beneath his shirt at his belt.
“Call the cops,” I whispered. Jake grabbed his phone.
Harold pointed at us. “You’re trespassing. Get off my land!”
“This is my access!” I shouted back. “You can’t block it!”
Jake was already speaking into the phone. “Yes, there’s a man threatening us—send someone fast—”
Harold’s hand moved to his belt. I saw the gun glint in the last light of dusk.
“Jake, he’s armed!”
Jake stepped back, hands raised. “Easy, man. Nobody wants trouble.”
Harold’s voice trembled with fury. “You started this. You won’t steal from me again.”
The shot cracked like lightning. Jake stumbled backward, clutching his chest.
“NO!” I screamed, diving behind the car as another bullet shattered the window.
“Shots fired!” I yelled into the fallen phone. “He’s shooting!”
I saw Harold’s boots crunch over the gravel as he advanced, muttering, “You people... always pushing.”
I ran for the house, heart hammering, zigzagging as another bullet tore through the air. I slammed the door shut, locked it, crouched behind the couch. Through the window, I saw him standing over Jake, gun raised.
“Stop!” I screamed, but the next shot drowned me out. Jake went still.
Then Harold turned toward my house. Slowly. Purposefully.
He walked up the path, muttering to himself. “Trespassers... all the same.”
The dispatcher’s voice crackled faintly from the phone: “Stay hidden. Help is on the way.”
He pounded on my door. The whole frame shook.
“Come out!” he shouted. “Face what you did!”
I didn’t move. I didn’t even breathe.
Minutes stretched into forever—until sirens finally split the valley silence. Red and blue lights flickered through the trees. Harold froze, then turned and trudged up the hill toward his house.
The police found Jake alive, barely. The bullet had missed his heart by an inch. Harold surrendered without a fight, mumbling about “defending his property.”
At the trial, I testified—voice shaking, palms damp—as I described every note, every glare, every whispered threat. Harold stared straight ahead, expression blank, as the judge handed down a life sentence.
It’s been months since then. I’ve moved to a new town, a new house with no shared driveways, no neighbors in sight. But sometimes, when the wind brushes against the walls at night, I still hear that voice, cold and trembling with rage:
“Get off my land.”
"The Ryder Feud":
I had just finished repairing the wheel on our stagecoach when the messenger rode up, his horse lathered white, his face pale under the dust. It was early afternoon, the sun burning low through the gum trees near Lucan Station. I was alone, wiping grease from my hands when he thrust a folded note into my palm without a word, then wheeled his horse and tore back down the road like the devil was chasing him.
The note was brief, written in a familiar, jagged hand: Your family's time on this land is done. Leave, or face what's coming.
No signature, but I knew it belonged to one of the Ryder boys. Our troubles with them had been festering for years—ever since Father claimed that northern plot. It had been wild ground back then, all scrub and stone, but we cleared it, fenced it, and made something that might’ve lasted. The land was rightfully ours, though the locals never saw it that way. To them, we were still outsiders—immigrants who’d come from across the ocean with nothing but our hunger to live.
I tucked the note in my pocket and rode home, the wagon creaking beneath me. My brothers and I ran the coach line together—Tom the eldest, Robert and Daniel the younger, and me stuck in the middle. It was honest work, carrying passengers and mail between towns, and it kept food on the table. But success breeds enemies. The Flanagans hated us for cutting into their business. They’d poison feed, cut harness straps, and once I caught one of their hands sneaking near the barn with a can of oil.
“What are you doing here?” I shouted, grabbing his arm.
He tore free and fled into the dark, yelling back, “You’ll pay for taking what’s not yours!”
When I got home that evening, Mother was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, kneading dough like she was fighting the world with her bare hands. Father sat by the fire, the pipe tight between his teeth, eyes clouded from the years. Prison had changed him—he’d done time for a fight over that same cursed land. “Edward,” he said, his voice a slow growl, “you look like you’ve seen trouble.”
I handed him the note. Mother’s jaw set hard. “Those cowards,” she muttered. “They’ve been crossing our fences for months, letting their cattle graze where they shouldn’t. Last week I chased two of them off with a broom.”
Father stared into the fire. “We’ve got rights to this land. The court said so. But these people—these so-called neighbors—they whisper in church and call it law. I’ve heard the priest talking about a ‘peace society.’ Says it’s to keep thieves away. I know what he means. He means us.”
We talked late into the night. My sister Jane sat quiet near the window, her hands twisting in her lap. “Brother,” she said softly, “I saw men watching the house yesterday. Up by the trees. They didn’t move, just watched.”
I tried to reassure her. “It’s only talk. They won’t dare.” But even as I said it, I felt something cold settle in my chest.
The days that followed proved me wrong. Trespassers came bolder now—tools stolen from the shed, wires cut, horses spooked. One morning a rock smashed through the window, a message tied to it: Squatters go home.
I was mending fence a few days later when Patrick Quigley—one of the peace society men—appeared on our side of the line. “This ain’t your land, Edward,” he said, voice thick with scorn. “Everyone knows it.”
“The judge ruled otherwise,” I said. “Now get off before I make you.”
He laughed, slow and mean. “You think a piece of paper protects you? One day soon, we’ll settle this proper.” Then he spat on our soil and walked away.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The house creaked and whispered with the wind, but every sound felt deliberate, like footsteps outside. My wife, Nora, stirred beside me.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered.
“They’re planning something,” I said. “I can feel it.”
“Then go to the constable.”
I shook my head. “Carroll? He’s one of them. Last time Father complained, Carroll told him we’d ‘brought it on ourselves.’”
The next morning, John—my brother from down the road—rode in pale-faced. “Ryder’s barn burned last night,” he said. “They’re saying we did it.”
By noon, a mob appeared—Ryder and his sons out front, guns across their saddles. “You devils burned my property!” Ryder roared.
Father stepped forward, calm but cold. “We did no such thing.”
Ryder’s eldest leaned down from his horse. “The society’s done waiting. You’ll see justice soon.”
They rode off, dust rising behind them, leaving silence that felt heavy as judgment.
We took turns keeping watch at night. I remember one still evening, lantern low, rifle across my knees. Out by the barn, I saw movement—three figures slipping through the fence. My blood ran cold. I went out quietly, boots sinking into wet grass.
“Who’s there?” I called.
McGrath turned, the firelight catching his smirk. “Just checking on our missing cattle.”
“You’re trespassing.”
“This land was never yours,” he said. “Soon everyone will know it.”
They disappeared into the dark, leaving me with the rifle trembling in my grip.
The weeks crawled by, tension wound tight. The priest preached about wicked men poisoning the valley. His eyes lingered on us from the pulpit. Bridget, my niece, came to me one afternoon, trembling. “Uncle Edward,” she whispered, “I heard voices last night. Outside the window. They said… they said they’d finish it soon.”
I held her close. “Stay near the house. Don’t go anywhere alone.”
But all the watchfulness in the world couldn’t save us. One afternoon, while I was away on the coach run, they came for Father. Carroll and his men accused him of arson, dragged him to town in chains. They released him after the hearing, no evidence found—but everyone knew it was a warning.
Then came the night of the fire.
It was past midnight when I woke to footsteps crunching on the path outside. Dozens of them. I looked out the window and froze. A mob was gathering—men with torches, their faces masked by rags. The glow of oil lamps flickered on their tools—axes, clubs, guns.
“Edward!” someone shouted. Ryder’s voice.
John, who’d stayed for supper, moved toward the door. “Stay with Nora,” he whispered. “I’ll speak to them.”
Before I could stop him, he opened the door.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
The answer came in thunder—gunfire. John staggered, then fell hard, blood blooming across his chest. Nora screamed, and I pulled her to the floor as bullets tore through the boards. I saw faces in the flash of the gunfire—Quigley, Carroll, McGrath—neighbors I’d shared bread with, now snarling like animals.
After what felt like forever, a voice said, “Enough for tonight. The rest is done.” Then the mob melted into the dark.
When dawn came, the smoke told me where they’d gone.
I ran down the road to my parents’ place. The house was gone—reduced to blackened ribs. Father, Mother, Tom, little Bridget—all gone. Their bodies found inside, beaten, burned, left for the crows. The boy who worked the stables told me what happened: how the men came shouting “Justice!” and left nothing but fire behind.
The township called it order restored. The papers said a disputed family had met its end. Trials followed, but no one was punished. Witnesses forgot, juries turned away. The same men still nod to me in town as if they hadn’t murdered half my blood.
I live on that land still, though it feels cursed. Sometimes, when the wind rises, I hear the voices again—Father’s, Tom’s, John’s—all warning me that the peace I fought for was never real.
And at night, when the boards creak, I still reach for the rifle, knowing that once neighbors decide you don’t belong, no paper or prayer can save you.