There’s Something Weird About The Chicken Coop On Our Farm: Part Two

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.

beetlejuice

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? Thought Catalog Logo Mark

Rona Vaselaar is a graduate from the University of Notre Dame and currently attending Johns Hopkins as a graduate student.

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