Margaret looked out the window at the passing oak trees and farmland, her face pale as memories long buried began to resurface.
“I haven't been down this road in twenty years,” she said softly.
Thomas glanced at her in the rearview mirror, then at the road ahead.
“The house hasn't changed much. It’s overgrown, but the structure is still solid.”
John leaned forward between the front seats, his elbows resting on the back of the console.
“What was he like, Thomas? At the end?”
Thomas tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
“Bitter. He spent his last five years in a wheelchair after a stroke. He hardly spoke a word to anyone.”
He paused, swallowing hard.
“The day before he died, I visited him at the care home. He pulled this photograph out from under his pillow and shoved it into my hand.”
Thomas gestured toward the dashboard, where the picture now rested.
“He looked at me with this terrible fear in his eyes and said, ‘Find her.’ That was the last thing he ever said to me.”
Margaret closed her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks again.
“He knew he was going to face God with a soul full of lies.”
John grunted softly.
“Fear of hell is a powerful thing for a bad man.”
They turned off the main highway onto a narrow, unpaved gravel road that wound through thick woods.
The trees overhang the road, blocking out much of the sunlight and casting deep, cool shadows across the car.
After two miles, the woods opened up to reveal a solitary, two-story farmhouse sitting in the middle of a neglected field of tall grass and wildflowers.
The white paint on the wooden siding was peeling, and the front porch sagged slightly on one side, but the house stood tall, silent and imposing against the gray sky.
Thomas pulled the patrol car up to the front steps and turned off the engine.
The sudden quiet was overwhelming.
John opened his door and stepped out, his heavy boots crunching on the loose gravel.
He stood in the driveway, looking up at the house with a look of intense, ancient recognition.
“I remember those front steps,” John murmured, his voice barely audible over the wind rustling through the high grass. “I remember dropping a blue marble down between those floorboards.”
Margaret stepped out of the car, leaning against the door frame as she stared at the house she had been forced to leave so long ago.
“It looks smaller,” she whispered. “In my mind, it was huge.”
Thomas walked up to the front porch, pulling the key from his pocket.
He inserted it into the rusty brass lock, turned it, and pushed the heavy wooden door open.
A wave of stale, dusty air rushed out to meet them, carrying the scent of old paper, damp wood, and decades of isolation.
They stepped inside the dark hallway, their footsteps echoing off the bare wooden floorboards.
Thomas reached to his belt and pulled out a heavy duty police flashlight, clicking it on and casting a bright white beam down the corridor.
“The electricity’s been off for years,” Thomas explained. “Watch your step. Some of the boards near the back are soft.”
Margaret walked slowly, her hand brushing against the faded floral wallpaper of the hallway.
“The living room was on the right,” she murmured, her voice carrying a ghostly distance. “We had an old piano in the corner.”
They walked into the spacious living room.
The furniture was covered in yellowed dust sheets, standing like shrouded monuments in the gloom.
John walked over to the stone fireplace, reaching up to touch the wooden mantelpiece.
He paused, bending down to look closely at the side of the brickwork.
“Look at this,” John called out, gesturing to Thomas.
Thomas shone his flashlight beam on the spot John was pointing to.
Carved deep into the wood of the mantelpiece were two sets of tiny notches, accompanied by initials and dates written in faded pencil.
J.M. - Age 4
J.M. - Age 5
And right below it, carved much fresher and deeper into the wood, was a third line:
T.M. - Age 6
Thomas stared at the carvings, a lump forming in his throat.