Chapter 3: The One-Legged Man’s Secret
I didn’t understand it at the time. The year I started first grade, that man was arrested. He worked for a human trafficking ring—he kidnapped both kids and adults.
I caught bits and pieces, enough to know he was gone. It was all over the local news: mugshots, police cars, neighbors whispering on their porches.
You couldn’t forget him—he only had one leg.
It was almost like magic. He’d shuffle around on his crutches, moving surprisingly fast for someone with just one leg.
But the nightmares never really stopped.
It wasn’t just a replay of what happened. Sometimes I’d wake up sobbing, convinced my bones were broken.
Most times in the dream, my mom couldn’t find me, but she wouldn’t leave the door. He never got me through it. Instead, it twisted—he hurled me into the backyard well.
That’s when I’d wake up. Heart pounding, drenched in sweat.
Fifteen years. That’s a long time to be afraid.
The first three years, it was like firecrackers in my head. Every few days, another explosion. Later, it became more like a taste that lingered—less frequent, but it always showed up right around Memorial Day every year.













