AllFreeNovel
Share Us
HANNAH
24 Years Old—July
Ihum as I pick the wildflowers. I love keeping fresh flowers in my kitchen during the summer, and my vase needs replenishing. I can’t wait to get home to arrange this bouquet.
Today is one of those perfect days. Not too hot. Bright blue sky. As the sun sets behind the tall trees surrounding the meadow, it lights up the clouds with a yellow lining.
As I’m reaching for a Black-eyed Susan, a strong gust of wind knocks me over from my squatting position onto my knees.
I glance up at the sky, expecting to see a storm rolling in, but there’s no indication of bad weather in any direction.
Shrugging it off, I go back to my task.
Not more than a minute later, a weird sensation comes over me. The back of my neck prickles with awareness, like I’m being watched.
Still kneeling, I turn my head to look over my shoulder. There’s a couple coming straight for me. The man is wearing a red-and-black plaid shirt and a gray beanie, and he’s carrying someone. A woman in a dress.
I’m not shocked to see anyone wandering on the property. Although it’s after closing hours, people tend to linger.
However, as they get closer, I become alarmed because the woman in his arms is obviously unconscious with the way her limbs dangle limply, and her head lolls back.
They’re coming from the direction of the barn. Maybe she snooped around in the hayloft and fell from the second story. I’ve been telling my parents we need to get signs up saying the area is off-limits.
I leap to my feet. “What happened?”
“Don’t panic,” he says with a calm, placating tone.
Tidbits aren’t adding up.
Why isn’t he freaking out? Why didn’t he go to my parents first? And the woman in his arms… she’s rail thin, unnaturally pale, and wearing a hospital gown.
Honestly, she looks dead.
Now that the man is ten feet away, I see dried blood on her neck, and there’s a dark-red spot where it soaked into the fabric on her chest.
“Did she get cut on something?” I ask, confused, my heart pounding.
Still, the guy approaches slowly while he watches me with a strange intensity.
Something about his direct stare makes me shiver, but not in a bad way. It’s like electric butterflies… all over my body, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.
“I’ll call 9-1-1,” I offer, pulling my phone out of my back pocket.
My trembling fingers are having trouble punching in the numbers, and before I can press the call button, the man closes the space between us. “Put it down.”
“What?” I balk, automatically stepping back because he’s in my personal bubble.
“There’s no need to call.” His voice continues to be monotone, so matter-of-fact.
“Why?” My thumb hovers over the green circle, and dread churns in my stomach when I make the reluctant assumption, “Because she’s dead?”
“Yes.”
No. How could someone die on the farm?
My first concern is for the person who experienced the tragedy and, subsequently, for their family who will suffer from the loss.
The second worry is admittedly selfish. The blame—it’ll fall on us. We’ll get sued. At the very least, we’ll have to shut down for a while if an investigation needs to take place. We could lose our business over an accident like this.
