Chapter 2: Ghosts in the Maple Shadows

It was last winter, a bitterly cold night. The wind howled outside, rattling the windows. I was sitting at the kitchen table, bills spread out before me, when Tom’s fist hammered on the door.

Tom Garrison kicked in my door and staggered inside, drunk and mean. His boots left muddy prints on the faded rug. His eyes—wild, angry.

“Mr. Foster, cut the act. I know you’ve got money.” He swayed, a sneer on his lips. His words slurred, but the threat was clear as day.

“Where’d you get the cash for your wife’s treatment? Wasn’t it borrowed from me? With interest, you owe me fifty grand!”

“I already paid you back, Tom.” I tried to keep my voice steady. My hands shook, but I didn’t let him see.

“The last two thousand I gave you last month. We’re even.” I tried to sound firm, but Tom just laughed, a harsh, barking sound.

“Even my ass!” Tom grabbed my collar. His fingers dug into my skin, leaving bruises I’d find the next morning.

“I say how much it is! If you keep stalling, I’ll take this dump as payment!”

His boozy breath hit me in the face. I tried to pull free, but he shoved me hard onto the floor. My head cracked against the table leg, stars exploding behind my eyes.

My back slammed into the table, pain shooting up my spine. I tasted blood in my mouth, the copper tang sharp and bitter.

“You stubborn old bastard!” Tom snatched a whiskey bottle off the table, stumbling toward me. His shadow loomed over me, huge and menacing.

Why did I let him in?

In a panic, I grabbed the fire poker and swung hard. The iron felt heavy in my hands, but desperation lent me strength I didn’t know I had.

With a sickening thud, blood blossomed on Tom’s forehead. He froze, then crumpled to the ground, twitching. The silence that followed was worse than the shouting—thick, suffocating.

I knelt beside him, trying to stop the bleeding, but the more I pressed, the more blood seeped out. Soon, he was still. I stared at my hands, slick with red, and realized there was no going back.

I’d killed a man.

Terror and despair washed over me. My vision blurred, and I thought I might pass out right there on the kitchen floor.

I was once the most respected teacher in Silver Hollow. Now I was a murderer. The weight of it settled on my shoulders, heavy as the world.

In a panic, I thought of the backyard—quiet, private, hidden from the road. Nobody ever came back there, not even the mailman.

That night, in the biting winter wind, I dug a deep pit and buried Tom, then spent hours scrubbing the blood from the floor. My hands ached, knuckles raw and bleeding, but I didn’t stop until every trace was gone.

By dawn, all traces were gone, as if nothing had happened. The sun rose on a world unchanged, but I knew nothing would ever be the same.

Back in the present, I kept digging with shaking hands and soon found the second body—the drifter. His clothes were still half-intact, the army jacket stained and torn.

He’d seen me sneaking around the backyard at night as he passed through town and hid in the shadows, watching. His eyes had followed me everywhere, sharp and knowing.

I still feel those eyes on me sometimes.

The next day, he came by, asked for some water, and once inside, his tone changed. He sat at my kitchen table, fingers drumming on the wood, eyes never leaving my face.

“I know what you buried last night, old man.” He grinned, mean and hungry. The words sent a chill down my spine.

“Give me ten grand or I’ll call the cops.”

He underestimated how desperate an old man with blood on his hands could be. Fear turns you into something else. I barely recognized myself.

When he turned to drink the water, I hit him hard on the back of the head with a shovel. The sound was sickening, but I didn’t stop.

After he dropped, I hit him again and again, until he stopped moving. My arms felt like lead, but I couldn’t let myself hesitate.

That night, I dug up Tom’s grave and buried the drifter beside him. The ground was cold and hard, but I didn’t stop until the job was done.

Digging deeper, I found Roy Walker and the homeless man. Their bodies were twisted, the earth reclaiming them inch by inch.

Roy saw me burying the second body. He tried to reason with me, but I couldn’t take the risk. Not after everything that had happened.

I wish I could forget Roy’s eyes.

The homeless guy broke in on a stormy night and caught me writing my crime diary. He thought he could take what he wanted, but I wasn’t going to let him.

That night still haunts me.

When I dug near the fourth body, my shovel hit something soft. The soil gave way, and a wave of rot filled the air.

I carefully dug around it, and a lock of dark hair appeared in the moonlight. It was… a woman’s body! The hair was tangled, matted with dirt and blood.

I gasped and clawed at the dirt, uncovering a rotting female face. Her features were twisted, lips drawn back in a silent scream.

Her skin was gray-green, but I could tell she’d been young. There was something heartbreakingly familiar about her, though I couldn’t place it.

There were clear bruises around her neck; she’d been strangled. The marks stood out, dark and ugly against the ruined flesh.

My mind reeled, pain stabbing at my skull. Memories flickered at the edge of my vision, just out of reach.

Who was this woman?

Why was she in my backyard?

Did I really kill her?

Just as I panicked, a rustling came from the maple tree. The leaves shivered, casting shifting shadows across the ground.

I looked up and saw a blurry figure standing beneath the branches, a pale face staring back at me in the moonlight. The figure didn’t move, eyes locked on mine.

“Who’s there?” My voice shook, gripping the shovel. The words barely carried past my lips.

The figure didn’t move, frozen like a statue. I blinked, and for a moment, I thought I saw her lips move—just a whisper, lost on the wind.

I forced myself to take a step closer, but she was gone. Just like that. Only the leaves rustled.

My heart pounded, sweat soaking my shirt. My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped the shovel.

Back inside, I locked every door and window, sat at the table, and shakily opened my diary. The pages were smudged with dirt and ink, my handwriting barely legible in places.

Ever since my memory started failing, I’d gotten into the habit of keeping a diary, hoping it would help me remember important things. I wrote down everything, no matter how small. Otherwise, I was afraid I'd lose myself.

The diary detailed how I killed and buried four people, but about the fifth—the woman—there wasn’t a single word. The pages skipped from one winter to the next, as if I’d simply erased her from my life.

I flipped to entries from ten years ago—blank, as if I hadn’t written anything, or… someone had torn out those pages. The edges were ragged, the paper thin and worn.

Early the next morning, a harsh knocking jolted me from a shallow sleep. The sound echoed through the empty house. I sat bolt upright.

I hurried to tidy myself and opened the door to find two officers and Councilman Briggs outside. Their faces were grim, eyes hard as stone.

“Mr. Foster, this is Deputy Harris and Deputy Grant from the county. They’re here about the missing persons case,” Harold said. His voice was tight, every word carefully measured.

I forced myself to stay calm and invited them in. I poured coffee, but my hands shook so bad the mug rattled.

“Mr. Foster, folks say several people have gone missing lately. Have you noticed anything unusual?” Deputy Harris asked, his sharp gaze sweeping my living room. He took in every detail—the faded photos on the mantel, the stack of old newspapers by the door.

“N-no.” I tried to keep my voice steady. “I’ve been under the weather and hardly go out.” The lie felt thin, but I clung to it anyway.

“We heard there have been some disturbances in your backyard?” Deputy Grant asked suddenly. His eyes bored into me, unblinking.

My heart skipped a beat. “Just planting vegetables.” I forced a laugh, but it sounded hollow.

“Can we take a look?” Deputy Harris smiled, but his eyes left no room for refusal. I nodded, leading them through the kitchen and out the back door.

I could only lead them to the backyard. My feet felt like lead, every step heavier than the last.

The pit I dug last night had been hastily filled in, but it was clearly out of place. The soil was uneven, clumps of dirt scattered across the grass.

“What were you digging here?” Deputy Harris pointed at the loose soil. His tone was casual, but I could hear the steel beneath it.

“I-I was planning to plant some vegetables, so I dug a pit to add compost,” I stammered. My voice trembled, but I kept my eyes on the ground.

Just then, Deputy Grant crouched down and picked something out of the dirt, holding it up in the sunlight—a piece of cloth, caked in mud, with faint dark red stains. My stomach turned at the sight.

“What’s this, Mr. Foster?” he asked, suspicion in his eyes. The cloth dangled from his fingers, heavy with accusation.

My heart nearly stopped, mind racing. I tried to remember if I’d left anything else behind, anything that could tie me to the graves.

“Maybe it’s an old rag. I used it to wrap up compost.” The words tumbled out, desperate and unconvincing.

Deputy Grant carefully slipped the cloth into an evidence bag. “We’ll need to take this for testing.” His voice was flat, giving nothing away.

Before leaving, Deputy Harris paused:

“Mr. Foster, if you remember anything, please call us. By the way, have you heard of the young teacher who disappeared ten years ago? Councilman Briggs said you were colleagues.”

Young teacher? My temples throbbed, a blurry female face flashed through my mind and vanished. The name hovered just out of reach, taunting me.

“N-no, I don’t really remember,” I muttered. My voice was barely a whisper, lost in the wind.

After the police left, I collapsed into my chair, shaking. The room felt colder than ever. The shadows pressed in.

They suspect me, and that piece of cloth… if it’s really blood, I’m done for. My hands shook so badly I could barely hold my head up.

At dusk, I received a letter with no signature. The envelope was old, the paper yellowed at the edges. My name was scrawled across the front in shaky handwriting.

Inside was a faded old photograph and a single line:

“Mr. Foster, do you remember Miss Lane? Her body is the fifth you buried.”

The photo showed a young woman, smiling in front of the high school gates. Her hair was pulled back with a red hair tie, her eyes bright with hope.

I stared at her face, my head splitting with pain, when a name suddenly surfaced from deep in my memory—Caroline Lane. The name echoed in my mind, each syllable heavy with regret.

At the same time, I heard faint digging from the backyard. The sound was soft. Almost gentle. Like someone turning over the earth, careful as can be.

The digging was weak but clear, as if someone was carefully turning the soil. My breath caught in my throat, and I froze, listening.

I froze, the photo slipping from my hand. The world seemed to tilt, the room spinning around me.

Caroline Lane? Did I really kill her?

I forced myself to move toward the back door, my hand trembling on the knob. Every step felt like it might be my last.

Taking a deep breath, I yanked the door open and rushed out, only to find the yard empty under the pale moonlight. The night was still, the only sound the whisper of wind through the maple branches. But the hair tie still lay in the dirt, and somewhere, deep beneath my feet, the earth held its secrets tight.