Image by Guillaume Techer from Unsplash

***

As we unloaded soccer equipment from the hatchback, Mike pointed to an old leather journal I had forgotten I'd tossed in the back seat.

"Took a souvenir with you?" He grinned like he'd caught me skipping a workout.

"I'll return it tomorrow."

"Another excuse to check out Officer Biceps?" Mike teased.

Hours after our interview, I hadn't shaken the feeling that Potts knew more than he hinted at, but it beat an accusation. I wanted to put this whole morning behind me to focus on my husband and my job. Hopefully, they'd catch the perpetrator, so the town would stay safe. 

"I was glad he interviewed us and not one of the trolls. I'll give the book back."

Mike glanced at the cover. "I doubt 'Flavours of Corbeau Woods' will break their case."

I cocked my head. "Come again?"

"It must be a cookbook." He nudged it toward me with a bag of equipment.

From the outside, the leather cover was identical to the journal down to the scuff mark on the bottom left corner except the spine included the title of the cookbook in golden letters. I flipped through the pages filled with recipes for meat pie, cabbage rolls, and pea soup, but no sign of her intimate thoughts. Just the occasional note about a substitution or recipe quality. I kept searching only to find more meals and the town's famous pumpkin pie. 

I set the book down with a sigh. Thankfully, I'd kept my mouth shut at the station because I'd clearly hallucinated the journal's contents and the stone platform.

Mike stepped closer as a gust of wind roared. "Do you want to talk about what happened earlier?"

I needed to bury this to return to my normal life. Nothing good came of dwelling on imagined realities. "After seeing Mrs. Crawford, I got spooked, and my mind played tricks on me. That's all."

He rested his palms on my shoulders. "Are you sure? I've never seen you that unsettled."

After I pulled his hands down, I encased them in mine. "I'm positive. Superstitions get to me sometimes too, but I'm fine. I promise."

I breathed deeply. This was a stress-induced hallucination. Like when I was a kid. My father and aunt had been adamant about it. I couldn't be lured in by voices as my mother had.

But a quiet voice whispered I'd found the book before I learned of Mrs. Crawford's fate. Could I blame my panicked mind if the feeling hadn't even set in when I read her journal?

There had to be a different explanation. Perhaps she'd written both, and I'd stumbled upon the irrational rant pages or the creepiness of the house made me read something different. Or I'd put the journal down and switched it with another without noticing. I ignored my unease to settle into my pregame headspace. The murder had been real and needed to be solved to keep everyone safe, but the rest wasn't worth dwelling on.

I ran drills with the kids who'd showed up on time. They hustled like players in the final half of a game when we were short players and getting crushed, but our game hadn't started.

I blew my whistle and motioned them in. "Meet me on the benches."

With everyone gathered and the late arrivals putting on their cleats and shin guards, we were missing a few people. Pott's athletically gifted nephew, Vince, ran to check his phone while the others caught their breath.

"What's happening today? We need to channel the fire we had last game when we took down the eagles. You can do this!"

"Sorry coach," the teens muttered between drinks of water. 

They whispered among each other. As the words 'eye statue' echoed, my spine straightened.

"You don't believe those silly superstitions, do you?" I asked.

The team went quiet until Vince's eyes met mine. "Why else are people going missing?"

Their eyes bore into me like I had the answer. My throat went dry. "There are plenty of other reasons people leave or disappear. If you're that worried, talk to the cops and the adults you trust. They'll handle it. Don't let a hunk of wood mess with your head."  

"Yes coach," they said. Their mood didn't improve but they stopped spreading statue gossip.

When the first half ended, I gathered my team, whose morale was as bad as their playing. Even Vince, who was always a wall never a window on defence, hardly challenged the other team's scrawny forwards. It didn't help we were short a couple of players.

"Come on, we can beat this team. I've seen you do it countless times. Let's tighten up the defence and stop giving away free shots. Then my midfielders, we've got to—"

Sirens interrupted from the nearby parking lot, capturing my players' attention. The police cars' lights made me tense. Had they returned to question me about Mrs. Crawford? Was that recipe journal the key to everything? Did they know I had omitted part of my story? I could be arrested, and Mike would never trust me again if he knew I lied to him and the cops. 

Our team migrated toward the bleachers like ants drawn to a decaying fruit. I wanted to run, but morbid curiosity drew me forward. Maybe it had something to do with my missing players. An officer in uniform called the off-duty ones in the stands to the parking lot. Their faces were grim as they exchanged words with their spouses and left.

Potts approached and cleared his throat, hands in his pockets. "Attention everyone. We are cancelling this game and asking that everyone immediately head and remain indoors until instructed to do otherwise. "

The spectators looked around perhaps for a brewing storm or dangerous animal which we came to expect. 

"Do not head into the forest," Potts added.

A shiver travelled down my spine. Was this because of Mrs. Crawford, or had the hatchet-thrower been real?

"This is Corbeau Woods! Half our homes border it," a man yelled. As did this soccer field.

"Be extremely vigilant."

"For what?"  a parent asked.

My skin prickled as I awaited his answer. Potts' arms crossed over his chest.

"We're holding a town meeting at seven-thirty tonight.  We'll release the details once we understand what we're dealing with." His phone buzzed, and he shook his head. "Coaches and parents, ensure these kids get home safe and take care of yourself. I have to go."

Before the flabbergasted parents could protest, Potts ran to the other officers in the parking lot. The squad cars sped off as quickly as they'd arrived. With the parents' help, we found everyone and their bikes and skateboards a lift home. 

Mike and I ended up with Vince since his uncle had been his ride. During most of the drive, he stared at his phone, but not like he was messaging or watching videos. It was that obsessive screen checking like he was waiting for news. His foot tapped over the sound of Mike's playlist of local indie bands.

I turned from the passenger seat to face the kid. "Are you doing okay, Vince?"

He gazed into the woods, which grew darker as thick clouds obscured the sky. "Yeah."

His flat tone and lack of eye contact didn't have me convinced. "Are you sure your uncle's words didn't freak you out a little?"

His brown eyes met mine. "No, it's my friend. It's not like him to ghost me."

Mike and I exchanged a glance. Silence could mean several things at that age, but after Pott's warning, my mind jumped to the Fisher kid's disappearance.

"How long has it been?" Mike asked.

"Four days. He wasn't at school, and no one else has heard from him either." Vince lit up his phone again and sighed.

"Have you talked to his family?" I asked.

"I stopped by his place. There was a car in the driveway but..."

"You should tell your uncle," Mike said.

Vince nodded, and his foot kept tapping. "I was going to today after the game. My friend and I got into a fight over something I wasn't ready to hear. I thought he might be upset and ignoring me."

"I'm sure you two will get through it," Mike said with a smile. "Want me to swing by his house so you can check?"

The teen shook his head. "Nah, it's okay. The Andersons live on the opposite side of town."

Mike's grip tightened on the steering wheel as my palms sweated. The Andersons, like the missing Fisher kid and Mrs. Crawford, had seen the statue. I took a deep breath. I was as bad as my players. No one had confirmed the family's disappearance, and maybe this was a fight between friends. Life was dramatic for teens. If Vince had heard from him four days ago, it couldn't be the same thing as Mrs. Crawford, could it? Mrs. Crawford had lived alone but for someone to target a whole family was different. My sense had to be overreacting. 

"You sure?" Mike asked.

I shot him a look. We'd already investigated one sketchy disappearance, and I still needed to wrap my head around what happened to Mrs. Crawford and examine the journal properly. We should let the police check out this one.

As if he sensed my unease, Vince declined and changed the subject to soccer for the rest of the drive. Once we dropped him off and drove away, Mike rapped his fingers on the steering wheel. "Do you think the Andersons... what if it's the same thing that Mrs. Craw—"

"That eye statue is making everyone suspicious. Speculating won't help. We'll find out what's happening at the town meeting tonight." 

Despite their usual slacker nature, the cops had to know enough to send everyone indoors. With a real explanation, I could forget all about what had happened in the forest and put the memories of my mother and her voices to rest too.

Mike sighed. "Okay, we'll start with that. Should we get an alarm system or security cameras?"

"We can look into it." If this wasn't a coincidence, and a deranged killer was targetting people, it would give us a warning. 

His shoulders softened, and he smiled at me. "So much for our quaint, sleepy town."

I gazed at the changing colours of the leaves as we ascended our street. The yellows were like lemons, and some reds were as dark and vivid as blood. I shook my head. What was wrong with me?

The SUV slammed to a stop in the middle of the road just outside our driveway. My skull hit the headrest hard, and I rubbed my neck.

"Couldn't give me any warning?" I groaned. 

Mike's knuckles were whiter than before.

My next words died in my throat as a three-foot, totem-looking statue sat on our porch. An eye the size of a grapefruit perched on the top, watching us.