Page 3 of The Premonition at Withers Farm

Yet that was Trent. She blamed it on too many hours alone on the tractor, working someone else’s fields while wishing he had his own. Not to mention, he was a Wasziak. Wasziakmen were known for their aloofness, even their gruffness at times. Men with hearts of gold, but as sentimental as a cement garden gnome.

Still, Molly could see this house through Trent’s eyes. A place like this, with an old farmhouse, a barn, a chicken coop, and miscellaneous outbuildings, not excluding a half-falling-down outhouse, and Molly knew Trent was sold. The place was theirs. Even if she hated it.

Molly buried her dreams of marble countertops and white trim work in every room. Instead, the kitchen upstairs was a galley style with enough counter space for a toaster and maybe a kitchen mixer. The appliances were white and old. And a master en suite that was a must-have for all those house-hunting couples on HGTV? Yeah, she was going to get a square bedroom on the suffocating second floor of the non-air-conditioned farmhouse, with a blue shag carpet from the eighties. She didn’t even like blue. Oh yeah, and no bathroom connected. She’d have to traipse down the tilted floor to get to that.

Molly tried to still her tempestuous, almost bitter thoughts. It wasn’t fair to Trent. It wasn’t fair to her.

“So, what do you both think?” Maynard crossed his arms over his polo-shirt-clad chest. He looked from one to the other.

Trent shot a searching glance at Molly. He said nothing except with his eyes. Clear blue-gray. HisClapton Bros. Farmsbaseball cap was flipped backward, and his longish, light brown curls looked like they were trying to escape the confines.

“It’s fine,” Molly agreed. Yay! She got to make the life-changing decision to buy their first home in a basement made of gravestones.

Maynard ping-ponged a glance between them.

Trent gave a brief nod.

The real-estate agent clapped his hands together. “Great!Let’s head upstairs. We’ll discuss the offer you’d like to make and get this baby turned over to you as fast as we can.”

The men moved past Molly. It was possible for feet to become permanently attached to the floor, right? Because she couldn’t move. Couldn’t process.

Her first house.

Theirfirst house.

Built in 1867, added onto at the turn of the century, and updated in 1992.

She should be excited, grateful, overjoyed that Trent was realizing his dream, and that she could be by his side as she’d wanted to be so badly when they were in high school. Back then, her dreams were of marriage, home, and family. She now had the first two—it was the latter that spiraled her into this darkness. This place that was impossible to crawl out of. It was the wordfamilythat crushed every speck of hope, stole joy like a hole in a bucket, and made grief her constant companion.

The stairs leading up to the ground floor were nothing but bare wooden steps. Molly eyed them even as Maynard and Trent reached the top and moved toward the kitchen without her. Trent didn’t need her for this. This was his thing—his place—his dream.

Molly cast a resigned smile toward poor William Smy—’s gravestone. “Guess you and I are going to get better acquainted, Willie.”

Great. She was already talking to dead people. The thought made her breath hitch and her foot pause as it hovered over the bottom step.

Dead people.

The room tilted, making Molly stumble and reach for the railing. She felt the icy whisper of air on the back of her neck. Taking a breath was like trying to draw in air while having the house settle its full weight on her chest. She wasn’t alone. She could sense it. Feel it. Everything butseeit.

“Go away,” she whispered.

The basement lightbulb flickered.

An electrical buzz crinkled in the air.

The basement went dark.

Molly barreled up the stairs, her feet clomping on the wood boards. She would have to give that dream up as well. The dream that she wouldn’t be haunted in a new place. Followed. By people just beyond who wanted her to listen, to give them her attention. People who were restless, anxious, and persistent. People who were dead.

I killed her.

It came out from inside of me, and I could not condemn it.

Someday, someone will find this. They will read it.

And they will discard it when they realize they have touched words written in blood.

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