Page 112 of The Premonition at Withers Farm

As awareness continued to grow in her, common sense came back into play. This was stupid of her. She needed to get back in her truck and head home. If she was going to explore the crawl space—the memory of being slowly suffocated—all of it, it should be with Trent.

“Don’t.”

Maynard’s voice over her shoulder startled Molly. She screamed, standing to her full height but instead colliding with the earthen ceiling. Tall enough to hold the barrel but not tall enough to stand in, Molly fell against the crawl-space wall.

Maynard held up a hand. “Be careful about touching anything. You really shouldn’t be in here in case this space collapses.”

“Yes.” Molly nodded. “I was just going to leave. I need to go home. I’ll come back with Trent. I-I just remembered that old barrel and the fire and—”

Maynard waved it off. “That barrel’s old. Farmers used to keep stuff in barrels and store them in their basements. Now come on out of there.” He extended his hand where he stood at the opening of the crawl space.

Something inside her resisted. Resisted his hand. Resisted moving.

Then it clicked. All of it.

“Jacqueline Withers,” Molly whispered. “She’s the one who sold this property to Clapton Bros. Farms, wasn’t she? She was the last Withers to own the murder house of 1910?”

“What are you talking about?” Maynard frowned. “Comeon, Molly, let’s get you out of there. We can talk in the sunlight.”

Molly eyed the metal barrel. “Am I right? You should know all this since you’re a Clapton and sold us this place.”

“Yes,” Maynard agreed. “Seriously, let’s—”

“Why would Jacqueline Withers sell her family farm to your family? Were there no more Withers left to inherit it?”

Maynard bent and took a step into the cramped space.

Molly stilled. “I’ll come out, Maynard.” She eyed him, nervous that instead of waiting for her, he’d entered the crawl space, now blocking the way out.

“Jacqueline Withers had kids.” Maynard nodded. “I would have told you and Trent that if you’d wanted to know.”

“Okay.” She motioned for Maynard to back out. “Let’s get out of here.” She’d been careless going into the crawl space, and with Maynard in the way of the exit, claustrophobia along with a sense of dread were growing inside her. “Maynard?” She snapped her fingers, and the sound made Maynard jump.

He stared at her.

“Maynard, let’s go. You’re right. I shouldn’t be down here.”

Maynard raised his brows as if he hadn’t heard her. “Jacqueline Withers had lots of kids—and grandkids. She married a Clapton.”

Realization spread its numbing fear through Molly. Jacqueline Withers was a Clapton, and Maynard was a Clapton.

Maynard crawled toward her. The concern on his face had been replaced with a strange expression.

“Maynard?” Now it was her turn to urge him out of the crawl space.

He ignored her. “Did you know that some people—like the Wasziaks—claimed my grandmother was responsible for the Cornfield Ripper killings?” Maynard snorted. “As if a small girl could have been responsible formurder.”

He edged forward. Caught off guard, Molly scrambled back and cried out as her back hit the metal barrel.

Maynard’s expression was growing worried once more, panicked. “Jacqueline Withers Clapton.” Spittle flew from his mouth when he said the name again. “She married into the Claptons.” He continued moving toward Molly. “You know, you’re just like January Rabine. Nosy and stupid. Why didn’t you listen to me? I told you not to come down here!”

“Maynard, please,” Molly whispered, fear gripping her. Her disorientation had led her back into the crawl space, only this time, instead of being trapped by fire, it was becoming clear that she was trapped by January’s killer.

37

Perliett

Jasper Bridgers had taken far too long. Perliett could see that Mrs. Withers’s form was fast collapsing in on herself. She continued to rock back and forth in the middle of the study floor, her pallor changing as the minutes ticked by. It wasn’t healthy for her. It wasn’t reasonable to leave her there, alone in her suffering.