Chapter 5: The Outpost and the Madwoman

Forensics backed up our theory, and the old-timers nodded, though nobody wanted to believe it.

Only by poisoning them first could a hundred-pound college girl kill three grown folks.

Captain Lucas changed his tune and quietly named Emily the prime suspect.

But whether she was a suspect or a victim, finding her came first.

The call went out: all hands on deck. The state police sent a few troopers, their shiny cruisers looking out of place on the rutted roads.

But out here, finding someone wasn’t easy.

The hollers and ridges went on forever. If you wanted to disappear, this was the place to do it.

So we never expected—

The radio crackled with a call that made our hearts stop. None of us were ready for what came next.

She hadn’t run for the woods.

No camping gear, no footprints toward the ridge.

She was hiding somewhere in town.

Turns out, she was closer than we’d guessed. Maybe too close.

Because that night, something else happened—

We’d barely settled in for the night, the first quiet since the murders.

The Browns—the same neighbors who reported the Mitchells—became victims too.

The Browns were the heart of the neighborhood: always first to show up with a casserole, always keeping an eye on things.

It was just the two of them, both over fifty.

George and Linda Brown had lived there since the Carter administration. Their porch swing never stopped squeaking.

Their kids only came home for Thanksgiving, but the Browns never missed a Sunday service.

The way they died was even worse than the Mitchells.

What we found inside was the sort of thing that sticks in your throat. Worse, somehow, for being unexpected.

While they slept, their heads were smashed with a blunt object.

No poison this time—just brute force, plain and terrible.

Their skulls were crushed like dropped watermelons.

Blood and bone covered the faded wallpaper and old pillows.

Linda’s Sunday crossword was left unfinished, pen still in hand.

The medical examiner’s report was clear. The weapon was homemade but deadly.

A wooden stick with a stone tied to it—still sticky with blood, tossed in the weeds behind the chicken coop.

But their deaths raised new questions.

Why the change? Why them?

If Emily did it, why kill the neighbors?

She barely knew them. No history, nothing in the gossip.

If it wasn’t her, was there someone else?

The thought chilled us all. Had we missed something bigger?

Could Emily really be behind all of this?

Emily was a small, frail woman. After what she’d been through, did she even have the strength to kill like that?

No amount of adrenaline could explain that kind of violence—unless something inside her had truly snapped.