Chapter 2: The Threshold

“Three days from now, you have to come back before sunset and burn this paper in the yard. That’s the only way this will end.”

Grandpa’s voice was low and serious, the kind of voice he used for things you never joked about—like tornado warnings or the time the church caught fire.

The man looked stunned. “What if I can’t get back in time?”

Grandpa narrowed his eyes but didn’t say a word.

The silence stretched between them, thick and sticky, like cold syrup. I could hear the wind rattling the windows, and for a second, nobody moved.

The man forced a laugh. “Mr. Walker, I’ll come back. I’ll pay you then.” He tried to sound light, but his voice wavered. He tucked the edge of the red paper tighter around his shoulders, glancing at me with a nervous smile.

Grandpa said, “No matter what, you have to be back in three days.”

He looked Tom straight in the eyes, making sure the warning hit home. Grandpa didn’t repeat himself unless it was life or death.

The man nodded. “I will.”

“Then go.”

Grandpa and the man left the yard, leaving just Grandma and me. I watched them disappear into the dusk, the porch light flickering, and the air felt hollow.

Grandma sighed. “Eli, go boil some water.” She paused, rubbing her arms. “We’ll have chicken for dinner tonight.”

She tried to sound cheerful, but I could tell her mind was elsewhere. She patted my shoulder, her hand warm and steady, the kind of touch that always made me feel safe.

I grinned. “Okay!”

The thought of chicken and potatoes made my stomach growl. I hurried into the kitchen, eager to help.

I hurried to the kitchen to get the water going, the linoleum cool under my bare feet.

I filled the kettle, set it on the old stove, and listened to the hiss of the burner. The kitchen smelled like wood smoke and fresh-cut pine from the firewood stacked by the door.

Night fell. Grandma finished stewing the chicken, and the whole house filled with the smell.

The scent drifted through every room, rich and savory. It was the kind of meal that made you feel safe. No matter how wild the wind howled outside, you knew you’d be alright as long as you were inside.

I was so hungry my stomach was growling loud enough to hear. Grandma ladled out a drumstick and some potatoes for me. “Starving? Eat a little first. We’ll wait for Grandpa before having the rest.”

She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and handed me a chipped bowl. The food was steaming, flecks of herbs floating in the broth.

I nodded. “Okay.”

I tried to eat slowly, but the warmth of the chicken filled me up from the inside, loosening the tightness in my chest.

Grandma put on her coat and stepped outside.

She pulled her coat tight, glancing back at me. “I’ll just check on the woodpile, Eli. And remember, don’t open the door for strangers.”

I was left alone in the yard.

The house felt too big and too quiet. The ticking clock in the hallway seemed extra loud. I could hear the wind picking up outside, rattling the shutters, making the whole place feel emptier.

I ran to the kitchen and snuck a few more bites of chicken from the pot. The meat was so tender, and the potatoes practically melted in my mouth—smelled amazing. I filled half a bowl of rice and stood by the stove, eating, feeling safe for the first time all day.

I knew Grandma would scold me for sneaking, but the comfort of the food pushed my worries aside for a moment. The kitchen was warm, the light golden and safe.

Suddenly, I heard knocking at the gate.

The sound echoed through the house, sharp and unexpected. My fork clattered against the bowl as I set it down, heart leaping into my throat. I froze, listening.

I put down my fork, ran out, and called, “Who is it?”

My voice sounded thin in the night air. The gate creaked as I leaned out, peering into the shadows, heart pounding.

A man’s voice replied, “Is this Henry Walker’s place? I’m looking for Mr. Walker to drive.”

Another person looking for Grandpa.

I opened the gate. A very tall man stood outside.

He loomed in the moonlight, his outline jagged and strange. I could smell the earth and sweat on him, and something else—something sharp and cold, like old metal left out in the rain.

In the moonlight, I could see his face—twisted, smeared with clay, and blood on his ear like he’d taken a nasty spill down a rocky hill.

His eyes glinted, wide and wild. The blood on his ear looked fresh, trailing down his neck and soaking into his collar. There was a deep gash above his eyebrow, and his cheek was swollen, turning purple under the porch light.

I said, “My grandpa isn’t home. He went up the back mountain to drive a truck. He’ll be back soon. You can wait in the yard.”

I tried to sound braver than I felt, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tremor in my voice. My fingers tightened around the doorknob, ready to slam it shut if I had to.

As soon as I finished, the man’s eyes widened with anger. “Henry Walker promised to help me drive tonight! How can he just back out like that?”

He stepped forward, voice booming. His anger rolled off him in waves, and for a moment, I thought he might break down the gate.

He looked terrifying when he was mad.

His face twisted even further, lips pulled back in a snarl. I took in the size of his hands, the dirt caked under his nails, and felt a shiver run down my spine.

I took a couple steps back, heart pounding.

The porch light flickered again, shadows dancing across his face. My breath came in short, shallow bursts.

The man’s face darkened. “Forget it, I’ll wait in the yard.”