Page 19 of The Premonition at Withers Farm

“Oh, gosh no.” Sid clucked her tongue. “No, that would’ve beenyourside of the clubhouse. I’d hang posters of furry heartthrobs, likeThe Black StallionorMisty of Chincoteague.”

Molly laughed, running her fingers along one of the rafters. “Think about it. Back in the day, kids playing in here above the chickens, in their little prairie dresses, and little boys in suspenders?”

“Oh yes. Outside the window would be Pa and his plow,” Sid added. “Of course, there were probably a few other kids, and farmhands, and ooh, just imagine—somedogs!”

Molly could imagine. That was part of the problem. Her vision glazed, then cleared. She reached out her palm and pressed it against the wall, the rough wood beneath her hand poking her skin. Sid was saying something, but her voice came as if far off in the distance.

“...must have been neat with horse-drawn plows and...”

Sid’s voice was overwhelmed by that of a child. Audible or in her mind, Molly couldn’t differentiate. The voice was whisper quiet, with an ethereal note to it, watery with childlike emotion that was coupled with worried fright.

Who killed Cock Robin?

I, said the Sparrow,

with my bow and arrow,

I killed Cock Robin.

Who saw him die?

I, said the Fly,

with my little teeny eye,

I saw him die.

“I saw him die.” Molly repeated the words that ricocheted through her daze. “I saw him die.”

“Molly?” Sid’s fingers dug into Molly’s arm. Maybe it was the sting of their pinch that brought Molly back to the present, but she was certain she saw the little girl in the far corner of the coop’s attic. The girl wore a rueful smile as she clutched a book to her chest. Her lips moved as if she continued the ancient nursery rhyme, but then—

“Molly!”

Molly jerked at Sid’s sharp demand. She locked eyes with her friend, then strained to see over Sid’s shoulder. But the image was gone. A wisp that had vanished, along with the sound of her questioning voice.

Who saw him die?

I...

This was not cool. Molly’s hand shook as she pushed hair back from her face, staring into the bathroom mirror. Her reflection was pale. She hadn’t realized she’d put on as much weight as she had either. Her face was fuller. She was curvier.

A knock on the bathroom door interrupted her self-critique and stilled her thoughts from going in a direction she would have avoided anyway.

“Open the door.”

It was Trent.

Sid had brought Molly back to the house after the debacle in the coop. Apparently, Sid was either convinced Molly sorely lacked protein for breakfast or Molly needed to see a doctor.“Iron deficiency maybe?”Sid had offered. She had no idea that Molly hadn’t been close to passing out like Sid believed. Sid obviously hadn’t heard the quivery whisper of a creepy child’s nursery rhyme. Sid hadn’t seen the little girl either—she would have said something if she had.

Which meant Molly was losing her ever-loving mind.

“Please open the door.” Trent was stern.

Molly smiled a little, even as she berated herself. He also knew that stern tone would get her to respond. Maybe it was instinctual, as a woman, to respond in obedience to a male voice that oozed authority. It was offensive to any strong-minded feminist out there, but Molly couldn’t help it. She’d been raised in the Midwest, where families were still patriarchal and good country men were good strong fathers, and good strong husbands, with wills stronger than the axles on their tractors.

She opened the door. Or tried to. It stuck because it was old, so she had to tug on the door for it to give way from its tight fit against the frame.

Trent’s left arm was braced on the upper corner of the doorframe, and that meant his T-shirt sleeve had pulled down, revealing his farmer’s tan. Dark olive skin until a clean line defined where the sun hadn’t been able to shine, leaving behind “skin so white it’d make a snowman blink twice.” Or at least that was what Molly’s grandfather used to say years ago.