Page 52 of The Premonition at Withers Farm

“But why would there be nylons in there?”

“Maybe the farmer who lived here before used it to strain something. My grandfather used Grandma’s old stockings and would fill them with acorns and use them as a ball for the dog to play fetch with. They ripped them up pretty fast, but it’s that old-time practice of recycling used items.”

Molly reached deeper into the crate. “There’s more stuff in here.” She pulled out a rope. It was old, weathered, and a bit dirty. The dust had settled into its hemp threads, making residue stay behind on Molly’s hands. She set it aside and reached in again. “Leather gloves.” Made sense. Every farmer needed leather gloves.

Sid was pulling out an item, and Molly noticed a weird look on her face.

“A roll of duct tape?” Sid held up a well-used roll, also dirty with age.

“Is that odd or something?” All the items so far made sense to Molly. A farmer needed things. Practical items.

“It reminds me of a serial killer’s kit.” Sid sat back on her heels, dropping the duct tape and reaching in again.

A wave of eerie heaviness washed over Molly. “That’s not funny.”

Sid pulled an item out. Black, knit, and soiled. She met Molly’s gaze, her mouth set in a thintold-you-soline. “A stocking cap?”

“Farmers get cold.” Molly yanked it from Sid.

Sid nodded. “Mm-hmm. But they keep hats in the house. Ted Bundy kept his with his killing kit.”

“Sid. Ew.” Molly tossed the hat onto the pile of growing items. It hadn’t been her intention to go through the stuff left behind by previous owners. She should have known, though, that Sid’s curiosity wouldn’t be able to just haul it into the coop’s attic and forget about it. She did, after all, use her metal detector as a hobby.

“Aflashlight?” Sid shrieked with surprise as she held out a silver flashlight that looked like it was from the 1970s. Scuffed, dulled, and rusted where the top screwed off to receive batteries.

“Farmers need flashlights too,” Molly stated.

“Do they need a belt?” Sid held the buckle end of a leather belt and pulled it from the bottom of the crate as if she were lifting a dead rotting snake from the innards.

“Yes.” Molly nodded, but now she was unsteady on her knees. She shifted so she could sit firmly on the floor.

“It’s a murder kit, I swear it.” Sid looked deliciously intrigued.

“Would you stop that?” Molly was doubtful. No one found a serial killer’s murder kit in a chicken coop. That was the stuff of that channel on cable TV, where crimes were concocted and made into cheesy murder-mystery films for women.

“Still, it makes you wonder.” Sid shifted on her knees, then started returning things to the crate. “All this stuff is decades old and not exactly going to solve any crimes anyway.”

A chill ran down Molly’s spine. She shot a glance at the stairs, afraid she would see that little girl in her translucent gown, or worse, that awful vision of January Rabine and her glossy, dead eyes.

“There’s never been a serial killer in Kilbourn—has there?” She begged the question of Sid, who was packing the last of the odds and ends back into the crate.

Sid flipped her curly ponytail over her shoulder and out of her way. “Not that I know of. We leave them to Wisconsin to produce. Gein, Dahmer...”

“Funny,” Molly mumbled.

Finished, Sid gave Molly a wink. “It’s okay. It’s not like you have murder victims buried all over your property.”

“No, but with January Rabine’s murder...” Molly contemplated telling Sid. Telling her what she hadn’t told Trent—that she had seen January in the house. That she had seen ... things. People. Or visions. “Sid?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think when people are murdered—like January—their souls haunt places?”

Sid shot her a searching look. “You’ve been watching ghost-hunting shows lately?”

“No.” And she hadn’t, so at least that was the truth. “I was just—well, I’ve heard that theory before and wondered.”

“My grandpa always used to say, ‘Absent from the body, present with the Lord.’” Sid stood, wiping her hands on her jean shorts. “Of course, people’s beliefs vary from church to church on whether it’s immediate, or purgatory, or if there’s a temporary heaven before—”