There’s Something Weird About The Chicken Coop On Our Farm: Part Two
I scrambled to my feet, swinging the backpack onto my back, leaving the flashlight – which had turned back on – in the dirt. I lunged for the rope and pulled myself up with a strength I didn’t know I had. A few moments later, I was out of the chicken coop, gulping in gallons…
I have spent the last few weeks in the town archives, scouring the newspapers for any evidence that this was a lie or a hoax.
Instead, I found deaths.
Well… disappearances.
Sylvanus Manchester. Gregory Hans. John Willows.
And then an article. There was to be an investigation – for these individuals and “more unnamed,” who I assumed were the child and the black man.
After that, an obituary. For Seamus Wagner.
Oh, by the way. I did finally open up that little tin box.
I think you can probably guess what was inside.
I haven’t gone back to the farm.
I showed up at my mom’s place in town, asked to stay with her for a few days. I told her there was a problem with the plumbing out at the farm, and I needed a place to shower and sleep until it’s fixed. I don’t know if she believed me. Right now, I don’t care.
I keep thinking back to the diary that I found. My mind never strays from that last entry.
Deep inside me, a dirty, nasty feeling is arising.
I have to wonder… is the reason that I’m so taken with the coop because I’m the blood he is calling?
I wonder if he’ll come for me next.
But, that’s ridiculous. After all, these are just the ravings of a mad serial killer, one who bettered the world by taking his own life. His insanity died with him.
…Right? 
