"BEHIND THE CURTAIN":
I took the job because I needed the work. The Bender family owned this big stretch of land out in the middle of nowhere, with a small house they called home and a barn where they kept horses and tools. It was far from any town, just flat grass and dirt roads that travelers used sometimes. Mr. Bender, the old man, hired me to fix fences, tend the garden, and help with whatever came up. He was a tall guy with a thick accent, didn't talk much. His wife, Mrs. Bender, stayed inside most days, cooking or sewing. Then there was their son, John, who laughed at odd times, and their daughter, Kate, who was pretty but had a way of looking at you that made you uneasy.
My first day, I arrived with my bag of clothes and a few tools. The house looked plain, one big room split by a canvas sheet hanging like a curtain. They had a little store in the front part, selling dry goods to people passing by. Mr. Bender showed me to a small shack out back where I could sleep. "You work hard, you eat with us," he said in his rough voice. I nodded and got to fixing a broken gate.
As days went on, I noticed things that didn't sit right. Travelers would stop for a meal or to rest their horses. Kate would talk to them, smiling and telling stories about being a healer. She said she could fix aches with her hands or talk to spirits, but she never mentioned anything strange like ghosts. One evening, a man in a nice coat came in. He was heading west for land. Kate sat him at the table near the curtain, pouring him coffee. John was in the back, hammering something. I was outside chopping wood, but I heard the man say, "This coffee tastes funny." Kate laughed and said, "It's our special blend. Drink up, it'll give you strength for the road."
Later that night, I saw John digging in the orchard under the moon. I asked him what he was doing. "Planting apples," he said, but he didn't have any trees with him. Just a shovel and dirt. I went back to my shack, but sleep didn't come easy. The next morning, the man's horse was still tied up, but he was gone. Mr. Bender said he left early. I looked for the man's wagon, but it wasn't there. Kate smiled at me over breakfast and said, "Don't worry about folks coming and going. That's life on the trail."
Weeks passed, and more people stopped by. A doctor from town came once, looking for his brother who had passed through. He sat at that same spot by the curtain. Kate kept him talking about his family. I was in the barn when I heard a thud, like something heavy falling. I ran in, but the doctor was gone. Mrs. Bender was mopping the floor, and she glared at me. "Mind your business, caretaker," she snapped. "He paid and left." But I saw a red stain on the wood before she cleaned it.
I started keeping watch. One night, I couldn't sleep, so I crept close to the house. Through the window, I saw Kate and John whispering. "He had gold in his pocket," John said, laughing that weird laugh. Kate shushed him. "Quiet. The caretaker might hear." I backed away slow, my hands shaking. What gold? No one had come that day.
The next morning, a family pulled up – a man, his wife, and a little girl. They looked tired from the road. Mr. Bender invited them in for supper. I helped stable their horses. The man thanked me and said, "Nice place you got here. Quiet." I wanted to warn him, but what could I say? Kate served them stew. The little girl ate quick, but the parents sipped slow. "This meat is fresh," the wife said. Kate nodded. "From our own land."
After they went to bed in the front room, I stayed up in my shack. Hours later, I heard a scream, short and cut off. I grabbed my lantern and ran out. The house was dark, but the barn door was open. I went in and saw John dragging something wrapped in a blanket. "What is that?" I asked, my voice low. He turned, his eyes wide. "Nothing for you. Go back to bed." But the blanket moved a bit, then stopped. I smelled blood.
I couldn't stay away. I snuck to the orchard where John had dug before. The ground was soft in spots. I poked with a stick and hit something hard. Digging a little, I found a boot sticking out. A man's boot, with the foot still in it. I dropped the stick and ran back to my shack, locking the door. Who were these people? Killers? For money?
The next day, I acted normal, but inside I was scared stiff. Kate came to me while I fixed a fence. "You look pale," she said, touching my arm. "Something wrong?" I shook my head. "Just tired." She leaned close. "We like you here. Stay, and you'll be part of the family." Her smile didn't reach her eyes.
That afternoon, another traveler came, a big guy with a gun on his belt. He ate quick, but kept looking around. "Heard stories about this trail," he said to Mr. Bender. "People vanishing." Mr. Bender grunted. "Indians, maybe." The man nodded but watched Kate careful. When she tried to seat him by the curtain, he moved to the other side. "Better view," he said. John stood behind the canvas, hammer in hand. I saw it through a crack. The man finished and left fast. Kate watched him go, her face hard.
I knew I had to leave. But that night, I heard footsteps outside my shack. The door creaked. I sat up, grabbing my knife. "Who's there?" No answer. Then a whisper: "Caretaker, open up." It was Kate. I didn't move. She pushed the door, but it was locked. "I know you saw things," she said soft. "Come out, we can talk." I stayed quiet. After a while, she left.
Morning came, and I packed my bag. But as I stepped out, John was waiting with a shovel. "Going somewhere?" he asked, laughing. Mr. Bender came up behind him. "We need you to dig today." I backed up. "I quit." Mrs. Bender stepped out the house, holding a knife. "No one quits us."
I ran for the barn, heart racing. They chased me. I grabbed a pitchfork and swung it. John lunged, but I jabbed him in the arm. He yelled. Kate screamed, "Get him!" I jumped on a horse and rode hard, not looking back. Dust flew up as I went down the trail.
I made it to town and told the sheriff everything. They went out there with men. The Benders were gone, fled in the night. But they found the bodies – eleven at least, buried in the garden and orchard. Men with smashed heads, throats cut. Even a little girl, buried with her father. The town folks tore the house apart, looking for clues. They found hammers with blood, a trap door under the table leading to a pit full of dark stains.
I never went back. That desolate place haunts my dreams. The Benders vanished, maybe to another lonely spot to do it again. If you're ever on a quiet road and see a farmhouse offering rest, keep going. You never know who's waiting behind the curtain.
"KEEPSAKES":
The place sat way out in the countryside, with fields stretching empty around it. Mr. Harlan lived there alone after his family passed away years ago. He was quiet, always fixing things or reading old books. He hired me to help with chores like mending fences and feeding the few animals he kept. I showed up every afternoon after school let out.
On my first day, Mr. Harlan met me at the door. His eyes looked tired, like he hadn't slept well. "Come in, boy," he said. "The work is simple. Just do what I ask, and don't go poking around where you shouldn't." I nodded and followed him inside. The house smelled musty, like dust and old wood. Some rooms had doors shut tight, with boards nailed over them. "Those were my mother's," he explained. "I keep them just as she left them."
We worked in the barn that day, stacking hay. Mr. Harlan didn't talk much, but when he did, his voice was soft. "Life out here is hard," he told me while we lifted bales. "People come and go. Some don't come back." I thought he meant they moved away, but something in how he said it made me uneasy. I asked what he meant, but he just shook his head and changed the subject.
A few days later, I noticed odd things. While cleaning the toolshed, I found a box under a workbench. It had strange shapes wrapped in cloth. I didn't open it, but it felt heavy and lumpy. Mr. Harlan caught me looking. "That's nothing for you," he snapped, quicker than usual. "Stay away from my things." His face turned red, and he sent me home early. That night, I couldn't stop thinking about it.
As weeks went by, the farm felt more wrong. One evening, we sat on the porch after work. Mr. Harlan offered me a glass of water. "You ever think about death, boy?" he asked. I shook my head no. He leaned back in his chair. "My mother taught me it's part of life. She said we all end up the same. Skin and bones." He smiled a little, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Sometimes I make things to remember people by. Like lamps or belts." I laughed, thinking it was a joke, but he didn't laugh back. "It's true," he added. "Want to see?"
I said no, but he stood up anyway. "Come to the kitchen." Inside, he pointed to a bowl on the shelf. It looked funny, not like regular china. "That's from someone special," he whispered. I backed away, saying I had to go home. He nodded. "Suit yourself. But come back tomorrow. Work's not done."
The next day, I almost didn't go, but I needed the pay. When I arrived, the house was quiet. Mr. Harlan called from the back. "In here, boy. Help me move something." I went to the small room where he lived. It was messy, with papers and magazines everywhere. He had me lift a heavy trunk. As we carried it, something rattled inside. "What's in there?" I asked. He set it down and opened the lid just a crack. "Keepsakes," he said. I glimpsed what looked like bones, white and clean. My hands shook, but I pretended not to see.
That afternoon, while he was out in the field, I sneaked back to the shed. The box was still there. I unwrapped one cloth. Inside was a mask, made of what looked like dried leather, with holes for eyes. It had hair attached, gray and stringy. I dropped it and ran out. What was this man doing?
Later, Mr. Harlan found me by the fence. "You look pale," he said. "Something wrong?" I mumbled no. He patted my shoulder. "Good. Tonight, we'll work late. I have a special job." His grip was firm, too firm.
As the sun went down, he took me to the orchard behind the house. "Dig here," he ordered, handing me a shovel. The ground was soft, like it had been turned before. "Why?" I asked. "Just dig," he replied. "You'll see." I started, but every scoop made me more afraid. What if something was buried there? He watched me, his eyes shining in the fading light.
After a bit, my shovel hit something hard. "Keep going," he urged. I cleared the dirt and saw a cloth bundle. "Open it," he said, his voice excited. I refused. "Do it, boy." He stepped closer. I pulled the cloth back. Inside was a human hand, cut clean, skin wrinkled and pale. I screamed and threw the shovel.
Mr. Harlan laughed, a low sound. "It's from Mrs. Warden, the store lady. She didn't need it anymore." He reached for me. "Now you know my secret. You can help me make more."
I ran. Through the fields, past the barn, to the road. He chased, calling my name. "Come back! We can be family!" His footsteps pounded behind me. I didn't stop until I reached town, bursting into the sheriff's office.
They went back that night. Found more parts in the house—skins stretched like hides, bowls from skulls, even a suit made from pieces. Mr. Harlan had killed two women, taken bodies from graves. All to feel close to his dead mother, he said later.
I never went near that farm again. But sometimes, I dream of his voice, whispering about keepsakes. The farm burned down soon after, but the memories stay.
"HIRED TO DIE":
My life took a dark turn when I answered that online ad back in 2011. I had been scraping by as a landscaper down in South Carolina, but work was drying up, and I needed something steady. The posting caught my eye—it promised a job as a caretaker on a big cattle farm up in Ohio. Room and board included, plus a decent pay. The place was described as quiet and out of the way, perfect for someone like me who wanted to get away from city noise. I figured it could be a fresh beginning. I emailed the guy who posted it, and soon we set up a meeting.
I drove my old truck north, excited but a bit nervous. The man I was supposed to meet called himself Joe. He sounded friendly on the phone, asked about my background, if I had family close by. I told him no, I was on my own mostly. That seemed to make him happy. We agreed to link up at a little restaurant off the highway near Caldwell. When I got there, Joe was waiting with a younger fellow he introduced as his nephew. Joe was in his fifties, heavy-set, with a beard and a calm way of talking. The nephew was quiet, maybe seventeen, with messy hair and eyes that didn't meet mine much.
We sat down over coffee. Joe explained the job again. "The farm's about 688 acres," he said. "Mostly cattle, some equipment to fix. You'll have your own cabin, nothing fancy, but it's peaceful out there. No neighbors for miles." I nodded, liking the sound of it. He asked if I had brought my things, since the ad said to come ready to start. I pointed to my truck outside, packed with my clothes and tools. "Good," Joe said with a smile. "Let's head over now. You can follow us in your truck."
We drove for what felt like forever on winding back roads. The trees got thicker, the houses fewer. My truck bumped along behind their car. I started wondering how far out this farm really was. Finally, Joe pulled over on a dirt path that led into the woods. He got out and waved me over. "The main road's washed out up ahead," he explained. "We'll walk from here. It's not far. Grab what you need."
I slung my bag over my shoulder and followed them down a narrow trail. The nephew walked ahead, not saying much. Joe chatted about the land, how it had been in his family for years. "You'll like it," he said. "Real quiet. Just you, the cows, and the wind." But something felt off. The path got steeper, and there were no signs of a farm—no fences, no barns, nothing. I asked, "How much farther?" Joe glanced back. "Just a bit. I want to show you where I got a deer last week. Good hunting around here too."
We stopped in a small clearing. Joe bent down like he was looking for something on the ground. The nephew stood a little ways off. I set my bag down, wiping sweat from my face. Then Joe straightened up, and in his hand was a small gun. His face changed—no more friendly smile. "Sorry, buddy," he said quietly. "I brought you here to die." My mind went blank for a second. I stared at him, thinking it had to be a joke. But he raised the gun, and I turned to run.
The shot cracked through the air, and pain exploded in my arm. I stumbled but kept going, crashing through bushes and branches. Blood soaked my sleeve, but I didn't stop. Behind me, I heard Joe yelling at the nephew. "Get him!" Footsteps pounded after me. I dove behind a fallen log, holding my breath. My arm throbbed, but I bit my lip to stay silent. They searched for a while, calling out. "Come on out, we can talk this over." But I knew better. The nephew's voice shook when he spoke. "Uncle Joe, what if he gets away?" Joe snapped back, "He won't. Keep looking."
Hours passed as I lay there, the sun dipping low. Bugs crawled on me, but I didn't move. My arm went numb, and I worried about bleeding out. Finally, the sounds faded. I waited until dark, then crept out, following the path back the way we came. Every rustle made me freeze—were they still out there? I imagined Joe lurking behind every tree, gun ready. My truck was gone when I reached the road. I walked for miles, dizzy and weak, until I saw lights from a house in the distance.
I knocked on the door, and an older couple answered. The woman gasped when she saw me. "What happened to you?" she asked. I collapsed on their porch. "Call the police," I managed to say. "They tried to kill me." The man helped me inside while his wife dialed for help. I told them everything—the ad, the meeting, the walk into the woods. Paramedics came and bandaged my arm. It was a graze, but deep enough to scar. The police listened to my story, skeptical at first, but they searched the area.
That's when they found the bodies. Two other men, buried shallow in those same woods. One was a guy named Ralph, who'd gone missing months before. The other was David, who'd answered the same ad. Later, they dug up another body near Akron—Tim, poor soul. Joe—whose real name was Richard Beasley—had been doing this for weeks, luring guys like me who wouldn't be missed right away. He stole our stuff, our identities even. The nephew turned out to be a kid he'd roped in, scared into helping.
I testified at the trial, facing Beasley across the courtroom. He stared at me with cold eyes, like he regretted missing that shot. The jury convicted him, and he got the death penalty. But even now, years later, I wake up sweating, hearing that gunshot in my dreams. I never took another job from an online ad. And I stay far from quiet back roads. That farm never existed—it was all a trap. If I hadn't run fast enough, I'd be buried out there too, forgotten in the dirt.
"REMNANTS":
I started at the Carteron farm just after the big war ended, when everything still felt broken and quiet. The place was out in the flat lands of central France, with fields all around and no close neighbors except one house far off. Mr. Carteron hired me to help with the animals and the small crops. He was a strong man, always working, but he kept to himself. His wife, Mrs. Carteron, cooked simple meals and mended clothes. Their son, Andre, was young and helped with chores. There was also young Claude, who stayed with them like family, learning the farm work. I had a tiny room in the barn, away from the main house.
The farm felt lonely, but I needed the job. Mr. Carteron paid in food and a little money. "Just do your part, Pierre," he told me on my first day. "We don't need trouble here."
Days passed with the usual tasks: feeding the chickens, fixing fences, milking the cow. But soon, Mr. Carteron seemed worried. One evening as we sat by the fire after supper, he stared out the window. "Someone's watching," he said softly.
Mrs. Carteron put down her knitting. "What do you mean, Kleber?"
"I felt it last winter, walking home. Steps behind me, but when I turned, nothing." He looked at me. "Pierre, you see anything odd?"
I shook my head. "No, sir. Just the wind in the trees."
Andre laughed a bit. "Papa, it's probably a fox or a deer."
But Mr. Carteron didn't smile. "Keep the doors locked at night. And the dog—let him bark if he hears something."
Claude nodded, his eyes wide. "I'll check the barn before bed."
That night, I lay in my room, listening. The dog whined once, then went quiet. I thought it was nothing.
A few days later, while I mended a gate near the woods, I found a strange spot—a pile of branches like a hidden shelter, not far from the path. It looked fresh, with flattened grass inside. I told Mr. Carteron.
His face went pale. "Don't go there again. Stay close to the house."
"Why?" I asked.
He paused. "During the war, things happened in those woods. People hiding, dropping supplies. I saw too much once. Best to forget."
Mrs. Carteron overheard and crossed herself. "Enough talk. Supper's ready."
We ate in silence that evening. Andre tried to joke. "Maybe it's a treasure hunter, looking for lost gold."
Claude smiled weakly. "Or a lost soldier."
But the air felt heavy. After, I walked them to the house and went to my barn room. The dog followed me, curling up outside.
Late that night, I woke to voices—low and rough, from the direction of the house. The dog growled, then yelped sharp and stopped. My body went cold. I slipped to the window, peeking out. Shadows moved near the farmhouse door. Two figures, maybe three, dark against the night. One carried something long, like a tool or gun.
I grabbed my lantern but didn't light it. Quietly, I crept closer, hiding behind a bush. The door creaked open. A crash inside—glass breaking. Then Mrs. Carteron's voice: "Who are you? What do you want?"
A man's gruff reply: "Quiet. Where's Kleber?"
Mr. Carteron shouted: "Get out! We have nothing!"
Sounds of struggle—thumps, a chair falling. Andre cried out: "Papa!"
Claude's voice: "Leave them alone!"
I wanted to run in, to help, but fear rooted me. More thumps, then silence except for muffled words. I inched forward, heart loud in my ears. Through a side window, I saw them: three men, faces hidden by cloths, tying ropes around the family's wrists and ankles. Mr. Carteron on the floor, blood on his head. Mrs. Carteron whispering prayers. Andre and Claude face down, shaking.
One man held a strange gun—short and metal. "You saw too much," he said to Mr. Carteron. "In the woods. Can't have that."
"Please," Mrs. Carteron begged. "We told no one."
The man shook his head. "Too late."
They forced them all face down on the stone floor. I gasped, covering my mouth. The gun barked—sharp pops, one after another. Bodies jerked, then stilled. Smoke filled the room. The men stood, checking cupboards, grabbing a few things—a bag, some papers.
One said: "The dog?"
"Already done," another replied.
They left through the door, footsteps fading toward the woods.
I stayed hidden, trembling, until dawn. Tears wet my face. Why? What had Mr. Carteron seen?
When light came, I crept to the house. The door hung open. Inside, the horror—bodies bound, blood dark on the floor. The dog lay outside, neck broken. I backed away, sick, and ran to the neighbor's house, pounding the door.
"Mrs. Jugand! Help! They're dead!"
She opened, eyes wide. "What?"
"The Carterons—killed! All of them!"
Her husband came, and we went back together. He saw and turned white. "I'll get the mayor."
Police came from town, asking questions. "You saw the men?" one officer said.
"Yes, but not their faces. Three, with a gun like from the war."
They searched the woods, found the shelter, the bag with Andre's schoolbook. Rumors spread—old war grudges, hidden fighters settling scores. They questioned people, even found a gun at a former leader's home, but nothing stuck. Months passed, no arrests.
I left the farm after. Couldn't stay with the memories—the voices, the pops, the blood. The place stands empty now, weeds growing. They say it was revenge from the past, but no one knows for sure. Sometimes I dream of those shadows, wondering if they're still out there, watching from the trees. The quiet farm hides its secret, and I wonder if it'll ever tell.
"THE KUNZ":
I started helping out at the Kunz farm last spring because jobs were scarce in Athens, and a neighbor mentioned the family needed someone to clean and tend the garden. The house stood way back in the woods, off a dirt road that hardly anyone used. Trees crowded around it, and the building looked worn down, with peeling paint and junk piled high in the yard. Clarence ran the place, along with his wife Irene and his sister Marie. Helen lived there too, with her grown sons Randy and Kenneth. The family kept to themselves, and folks in town whispered about them, but I figured it was just talk.
On my first day, Irene met me at the door. She was old, with gray hair pulled tight in a bun, and she smiled a little. "Come in, dear. We appreciate the help. The house gets away from us sometimes."
I nodded and stepped inside. The air smelled musty, like old paper and dust. The kitchen had dishes stacked in the sink, and the floor needed sweeping bad. I got to work scrubbing while Irene sat at the table, peeling potatoes. "You live alone?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am. Just me in a small apartment in town."
She glanced up. "Good. Family can be... complicated."
I didn't think much of it then. As I cleaned, I noticed odd things. In the living room, boxes of tapes sat on the shelves—adult movies, the kind with covers that made me blush. I pretended not to see them and dusted around. Randy came in later, a tall man with messy hair. He grabbed a drink from the fridge without saying hello. Helen followed him, her eyes sharp. "Who's this?" she asked.
Irene answered. "Our new helper, Linda. She's here to tidy up."
Helen stared at me for a long moment. "Don't touch anything in the bedrooms. We handle those."
I agreed and kept working. That afternoon, while weeding the garden, Kenneth drove up in his truck. He was quieter than Randy, but he helped unload some firewood. "Thanks for coming," he said. "It's hard keeping up."
"No problem," I replied. "Nice to have work."
As days went by, I learned their routines. Clarence fixed fences in the fields, Marie fed the few chickens they had left, and the others stayed inside mostly. The farm wasn't big anymore—just some vegetables and old equipment rusting away. One time, while mopping the hall, I heard voices from upstairs. Low murmurs, like arguing. I paused, but couldn't make out words. When I asked Irene later, she shrugged. "Just family matters. Nothing for you."
But it bothered me. The house felt wrong, with all that clutter. Papers and empty cans everywhere, and no bathroom inside—they used an outhouse. I had to go outside for that, which made me nervous as the woods closed in. Once, as I walked back, I thought I saw movement in the trees. A shadow shifting. I hurried inside.
A week later, Randy cornered me in the kitchen. "You hear things about us in town?"
I shook my head, wiping counters. "No, sir."
He leaned close. "They say lies. About how we live. Don't believe it."
"I don't listen to gossip," I said, stepping back.
He nodded but watched me funny. That night, after I left, I couldn't shake it. The next day, Helen pulled me aside while I folded laundry. "We have money hidden. Don't go looking."
"Why would I?" I asked, surprised.
"Just saying. People might think we have nothing, but we do. Buried under stuff."
It sounded strange, like a warning. I nodded and kept quiet. As I worked, I found more tapes under couches, even in the pantry. Dozens of them. I wondered if the whole family watched together, and the idea made my skin crawl.
One evening, Clarence sat on the porch while I swept it. "You ever feel alone out here?" he asked.
"Sometimes," I admitted. "It's quiet."
He chuckled. "Quiet is good. Keeps outsiders away."
But it wasn't always quiet. At times, I'd hear footsteps upstairs when everyone was down. Or a door creak open in an empty room. I checked once, but found nothing. "Mice," Marie said when I mentioned it. "Old house has them."
I didn't believe her. The family acted odd around each other too. Helen and her sons shared rooms in ways that seemed too close. Randy and Kenneth argued often, voices rising about money or chores. Once, I overheard Kenneth say to Randy, "She knows too much. Watch her."
I pretended not to hear and finished fast that day.
Things got worse. One morning, I arrived to find the front door ajar. Inside, papers scattered like someone searched in a hurry. Irene cleaned it up. "Wind blew it open," she said.
But no wind that day. Clarence looked worried, checking locks. "Someone's been around. I saw footprints near the barn."
"What kind?" I asked.
"Boot marks. Leading to the house, but not away."
That scared me. The farm felt watched. I started bringing my own lunch, not eating their food. Helen noticed. "Don't trust us?"
"Just habit," I lied.
A few days on, while in the basement fetching jars, I heard scratching. Like fingers on wood. I called out, "Hello?"
Silence. Then a soft thump. I ran upstairs. "Something's down there," I told Marie.
She laughed. "Imagination. Go back to work."
But I couldn't. That night, I dreamed of eyes peering from the woods. The next week, Randy disappeared for hours, coming back with dirt on his hands. "Digging," he said.
"For what?"
"None of your business."
Tension built. The family whispered more, glancing at me. Clarence found a rifle missing from the shed. "Who took it?" he demanded at supper.
No one answered. Irene looked at Helen. "Maybe that boy from town. The one who helps sometimes."
I knew she meant Chris, a young man who came by occasionally for odd jobs. He and Randy talked business, something about cars or money. Chris seemed nice, but uneasy around them.
One day, Chris pulled me aside outside. "You shouldn't stay here. This family... they're not right."
"What do you mean?" I whispered.
"Rumors. About how they live. And money hidden. Someone might come looking."
"Who?"
He shook his head. "Just leave. I am."
He stopped coming after that. I should have too. But I needed the pay. Then, one afternoon, I found a note on the kitchen table. Scrawled words: "Get out before it's too late."
No one admitted writing it. That did it. I told Irene, "I'm done. This place gives me bad feelings."
She sighed. "Suit yourself. We'll find another."
I left that day, never went back. Months passed. I moved on to a job in town. Then, word spread. The Kunz family—dead. Shot in the head, execution style, right in the house. Clarence, Irene, Marie, Randy. Helen missing at first, then found in a creek, same way.
Police said the house was torn apart, like a search for cash. They questioned Chris, even charged him with taking Helen, but not the killings. No one knows who did it for sure.
I think about it often. Those whispers, the shadows, the hidden things. Was someone living nearby, waiting? Listening? I check my locks now, wonder if eyes watch from the dark. The farm still stands empty, but I bet secrets linger there.