Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Cassie
Despite my best efforts to get answers out of her, Madelyn refuses to say anything else at the diner. However, the longer I sit there, the more questions fill my mind.
Who is the Watcher and why is she so deathly afraid to talk about him?
Is he a real person, or a legend these people have made up to explain paranormal activity?
Is he a ghost? An animal? Someone’s creepy uncle who slinks around town and catcalls women?
I’m growing more desperate for answers by the second.
We finish our milkshakes, which are fantastic, and take our slices of apple pie to go. As we’re backing out of the parking space in front of the diner, I can’t hold in my questions any longer.
“Maddie, who the hell is the Watcher?”
Her jaw tenses at the name, and she waits until we’re rolling down the road to say anything. She still keeps her voice low, like she’s afraid of being overheard, even though we’re completely alone.
At first, I thought she was overreacting, but the genuine fear in her eyes speaks volumes. The hairs on my arms creep up to attention.
“It depends on who you ask.”
“Well, I’m asking you.” I attempt to keep my temper on a leash. Her vagueness and deflection are grating on my patience.
She sighs. “He haunts Cold Springs. Some say he’s a demon that Hell spat out. Others say he’s the ghost of Michael Smith, a cult leader who was hanged here decades ago. Some say he was murdered for having an affair with the wife of Cold Springs’ first mayor.”
A ghost.
So, he’s not real.
“Has anyone ever seen him?” I ask, swallowing my initial response to dismiss her claim.
“No, but no one goes looking for him.” She shakes her head. “You can hear him at night, screaming and groaning. Animals have gone missing all over town, and several people have disappeared.”
“And you think the Watcher is behind all of it?”
She nods.
“But how can you be sure with no proof?” I press.
I’ve never been superstitious, even though I’ve watched countless Netflix documentaries on myths and legends.
I don’t believe things unless I see them with my own eyes, unless I’m presented with hard facts, not just rumors. “If no one’s ever seen him—”
“I’m sure people have,” she cuts in with a huff. “But no one has lived to tell about it.”
As we head out of town, the air gets thicker, and my throat tightens. I’m not afraid—you can’t fear something you don’t believe in—but Madelyn’s terror is almost tangible.
“Does he just haunt the town?”
“He roams all of Cold Springs, but the screams normally come from the old cornfield out yonder.” She points out the passenger window.
I follow her finger and stare into the distance, just able to make out a wall of cornstalks on the horizon.
“They stopped harvesting years ago because farmers were going missing. They even tried burning the field, but it grew back overnight.”
My eyebrows hike up as I continue to watch the field, wondering how it could possibly grow back in such a short amount of time. The rest I can explain away with science or circumstance but burnt crops suddenly reappearing is harder to disprove.
“Interesting,” I mumble.
“Don’t bring any of this up to Momma or Poppa, or anyone else for that matter. I shouldn’t even be talking about it,” she explains. “It’s terrible luck. We don’t talk about or go looking for him, and we certainly don’t go into the cornfield.”
“What about just getting closer to it and peering inside?” I ask, the thought of pulling off the road and heading toward the field already tugging an invisible thread in my chest. “During the day it wouldn’t be so bad, right—”
“Cassie,” she snaps, cutting me off. “It’s not a joke. Do not engage with the Watcher. That includes taunting him.”
I fall silent. Arguing is clearly pointless.
We turn off the main road toward the house, and the cornfield disappears from view. It lingers in my mind, however, and I quietly mull over possibilities as we roll down the long dirt driveway.
The thought of the Watcher clearly causes Madelyn a lot of distress, but if I can prove to her that he isn’t real, she won’t have to live in fear anymore.
Nobody in Cold Springs will have to be afraid.
Halloween isn’t far away, either—just over two weeks from today—which gives me plenty of time to investigate and gather information in any way I can. I know Madelyn said not to bring it up, but I’m sure I can beat around the bush enough to draw some answers out of Aunt Bonnie and Uncle Mark.
If I’m lucky, they’ll be just as forthcoming as Madelyn.
If Madelyn is wrong, and the Watcher is really a wild animal rather than a spirit, that will change things. It’ll probably be best to go armed.
Would Uncle Wayne let me borrow a gun?
Would I even know how to use one?
My thoughts are spiraling by the time we park behind the house, and I follow Madelyn inside in a daze. I have a lot to figure out, but one thing is certain: I’m going into that cornfield one way or another.
I dare to hope I can sleep in again the next morning, but just as the sun starts to peek over the horizon, Maddie is knocking on my bedroom door.
With a grumble, I crawl out of bed and get dressed in my least favorite clothes—I need to buy things to wear around the farm—and follow her downstairs with a yawn.
“Do you get up this early every morning?” I ask.
She nods. “Sometimes even earlier, depending on what has to be done. I swear, it’s not that bad once you get used to it.”
I don’t have the energy to explain that being a morning person is something I’ll never get used to, and that to adequately function, I need at least three more hours of uninterrupted sleep. Not to mention caffeine.
It might not be so bad if I hadn’t stayed up late listening through my cracked window for any signs of the Watcher.
I’d strained to hear screams or groans or anything that sounded out of the ordinary, but when I finally fell asleep around midnight, I hadn’t heard anything aside from a coyote in the distance.
Nothing scary.
Nothing haunting.
I was almost a little disappointed by the lack of evidence but considering I still don’t believe Cold Springs is really haunted, I’m not surprised. It’s a legend, nothing more, but it’s so deeply ingrained in Madelyn’s brain, she can’t separate the myth from reality.
It’s sad, but a strong tug in my chest reminds me I can help.
Maybe this is why I ended up on the farm after all: to help put an end to the Watcher superstition. I have to admit, playing a supernatural detective is more exciting than laying on a beach or trying my luck in Cali.
Definitely better than farm chores.
The barn is close enough to walk to, but thankfully, Madelyn cranks up the four-wheeler.
I already don’t have the energy for chores, much less making the trek across the field and back, so I happily hop on behind her.
Not to mention, riding a four-wheeler is something I’ve always wanted to do, but never had the chance to in the city.
It’s exhilarating even though I’m tall enough to see straight over her head, and the frigid morning air bites at my cheeks as we speed across the grass.
I follow Madelyn’s lead with the chores, trying my best to take mental notes on where the feed is located and how much to give each animal. Then we’re off to shovel hay, gather eggs, and tend to a modest garden Aunt Bonnie grows in the field.
Sweat beads along my forehead, and my shirt sticks to my skin. I’m burning up despite the cold air when we finally head back to the house for breakfast.
“How is it not lunchtime already?” I huff as we climb the steps to the porch.
Madelyn giggles. “Because we were only out there for a couple of hours.”
“Yeah, well, it definitely felt longer—”
A noise in the distance cuts me off. There’s no way to tell which direction it’s coming from, but it’s clear enough to stop me in my tracks. It’s a scream, ringing through the air, but it’s faint.
Distant.
Desperate.
Distraught.
My breath hitches, and my eyes lock with Madelyn’s.
“Do you hear that?” I ask, my pulse kicking up the longer the sound drags on.
She hesitates for a moment, and I can tell she’s trying to wipe the worry from her face. Her body is rigid, her jaw tight, when she replies.
“No,” she says. “And neither do you.”
Without another word, she grabs onto the sleeve of my hoodie and drags me inside, snapping the door closed behind us. My disbelief makes it impossible for me to react until we’re stepping into the dining room, where Aunt Bonnie is serving breakfast.
“Good morning, girls,” she says as she slides some scrambled eggs onto a plate. She probably didn’t hear the scream from inside—it wasn’t loud enough to make it through the walls—but the fact that she’s standing here so calmly shocks me. “Breakfast is ready.”
Finally, I regain my senses and wheel around on Maddie, her eyes widening with my movement.
“What do you mean I didn’t hear anything?” I blurt, eager to continue our conversation even though she seems determined to squash it. “I saw the look on your face. You heard it too.”
“No, I didn’t.” She shakes her head firmly.
Aunt Bonnie’s head snaps up at the commotion and she stops in her tracks.
“What did you hear?” she interjects.
I let my gaze slide over in her direction. “Someone screamed, but Maddie says she didn’t hear anything.”
“Oh that,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “It was probably just a crow. Their cries sound awfully like screams, you know.”
I open my mouth to argue, but the words die in my throat.
I know what I heard, and it wasn’t a damn crow.
It was someone screaming—they sounded like they were in pain.
“And if it wasn’t?” I ask, hoping for a better explanation.
Aunt Bonnie isn’t inclined to give me one and simply smiles. “It was just a crow, Cassie. Now, why don’t you girls go wash up so you can eat. I bet you’re starving.”
Heat burns my cheeks, and I turn on my heel to head upstairs, irked no one will listen to me. At least Aunt Bonnie tried to come up with a believable excuse, rather than gaslighting me like Madelyn. There’s no telling what Uncle Wayne would say, but I decide not to bring it up again at breakfast.
None of them are going to give the answers I seek, and the best way to discover the truth is to find out for myself.
I wash up and head back downstairs, wondering if I’d be allowed to take the four-wheeler out for a ride, or if I’m going to have to drive my car all the way to the forbidden cornfield.