Once they had their path mapped out, Ambrose took care of his memories and left him abandoned on that gravel road inside his beat-up sedan.
Chapter Three
Melinda
When things become stressful or just overall too much, my dad used the farm as a form of reprieve from his anger. He would disappear before the sun rose and wouldn’t get back until the sun went down. I would stay inside, thankful that I had no chores to do outside, but I would always worry about him.
With these suited men demanding our property, I found his time was practically always spent out in the barn. Even when I woke up this morning, I found breakfast waiting along with the absence of him.
My outlet used to be shooting cans in the backyard, but I accidentally shot out a tire on the tractor and my gun privileges were revoked. An understandable punishment, but now I had to use other healthy methods.
Once I turned the legal drinking age, I found that outlet at the only bar in town. I didn’t drink usually, but they had four pool tables inside and I always had one on reserve for me whenever I needed it. The people who ran the bar knew me since I had been in diapers—as did everyone else in town. Though the residents were the most skeptical, smaller minded people, they cared for their own in this town and I was luckily one of those privileged.
I leaned over the worn wooden pool table, my eyes fixed on the cue ball. With a steady hand, I aimed and struck, sending the ball rolling across the green felt surface. It collided with its target, sinking into the corner pocket with a satisfying thud. A small smile played on my lips as I straightened. I moved to the next, but I was quick to realize I was too far from my ball. I still attempted, only tapping my last ball a few centimeters toward the pocket.
“Looks like I’ll be stealing that hard-earned scratcher money, Rick,” I taunted as I stared at the ratio of my remaining balls to his. He let out a gruff noise before lining up his shot into the left corner pocket. “You’re catching up.”
As he continued his turn, I let my eyes roam over the bar. The Saddleback was bustling with activity, the air thick with the scent of alcohol and the sound of laughter. I relished in the familiar ambiance, feeling at home amidst the dimly lit room and the clinking of glasses. My eyes landed on Rick Howard, who was an auto parts store owner that had lived here as long as me. He was also the only person who was willing to play with me despite my running streak and competitive nature.
I caught snippets of conversation from a nearby group of patrons. Intrigued, I paused to listen, my curiosity piqued by their hushed tones.
"...heard someone finally moved into Agatha's place."
My ears perked up at the mention of the name. Many hadn’t spoken her name since my discovery of her dead body. Even the local police had kept everything hush hush due to the dark nature of her body and the clear indication it was a murder. Their conversation continued nearby as I grabbed the chalk for the head of the pool stick.
"Yeah, about time. Place was getting creepy with her gone and all."
Stepping closer to the group clad in construction uniforms, I interjected, unable to contain my curiosity. "Sorry to eavesdrop, but did I hear you mention Agatha's place?"
The men turned to me, their expressions eager to spread their gossip. Honestly, this entire town just loved a good drama, as long as they weren’t involved. Gossip was like currency here, but the only place free of this would be the church that everyone frequented. The only place where they listened to the rules of the good book to seal their lipsandlegs.
Rick had leaned into the conversation as well, eavesdropping as I had.
"Yeah, old Agatha passed away a few days back," one of them replied, his voice tinged with solemnity. "They say some city people moved into her place. Good lookin’ kids, but they stood out with their flashy outfits.”
My eyebrows furrowed as I processed the information. Agatha's death had sent ripples through the town, but the news of the house being moved into so quickly caught me off guard. Were they related or was the house already sold off? Questions came as the information flowed from the two construction workers.
"Was it sold or are they related?"
"They didn’t look like Miss Agatha, but I’d only known that woman for a decade. These city kids were too well groomed for what she came across as," another man replied with a shrug. "Heard they're planning to fix it up and move in."
I nodded thoughtfully, my mind racing with questions. What would drive someone to want to live in Agatha's old house? These two individuals had to be related to her somehow, right? That place was a mess, completely falling apart, staying together with boards and hope. Countless times I had patched her porch while she argued with me about building a new one. She was a stubborn old woman who saw no need to replace something until it could no longer function.
“I wonder why they’d fix it up rather than tear it down and start new?”
The men chuckled, exchanging knowing glances. "Who knows? City folks got more money than sense, if you ask me," one of them remarked.
I thanked the men for the information before returning to my game, but my thoughts remained consumed by the news of the newcomers to Agatha's old home. As I lined up my nextshot, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the story than met the eye. Deciding to feed the curiosity, I finished the game with a few shots and took my winnings out to my truck.
I knew the way to Agatha’s but, just like any house here, walking was involved.
I still had to park my vehicle by the gate when I arrived. There was no way I would let my truck take the abuse of this road, so I trekked down the dirt and gravel driveway towards her home on foot. Trees formed a canopy, with only minimal moonlight coming through the gaps. As I neared, I felt the sensation that someone—or something—was watching me, raising the hair on the back of my neck. The feeling grew more intense the closer I got, eventually causing me to pause and look around to find what was watching me.
In the distant shroud of bushes and trees, were two golden eyes that seemed to illuminate through the shadows of the leaves. Fear caused my heart to plummet to the gravel at my feet. Was this a wolf? A mountain lion? Either scenario still meant a predator that I was very likely to lose a fight with.
Choosing to live, I turned on my heel and booked it away from the house, back towards my car. Once inside, I sent gravel flying behind my tires as I raced away from whatever had protected the house and mysteries the new tenants held.
That night I dreamt of those gold eyes.
