Chapter 5 – The Stranger on the Street

The library closed at 6:00 sharp, and Maya, ever the rule-follower, flicked the overhead lights twice before ushering Ronny out the side door. He carried the file folder under his arm like it might evaporate if left unattended. They’d copied everything—maps, clippings, even the margin-noted folklore passages—and agreed to meet again in the morning with boots, flashlights, and whatever passed for field gear in their current lives.

“Sleep well,” Maya said with a half-smile. “If you can.”

Ronny nodded and watched her lock the doors behind her, then turned and walked toward his truck. The rain had cleared completely now, leaving the pavement wet and glistening like a stage floor. A few birds chirped from the trees along the courthouse lawn. For a moment, the world felt quiet.

Too quiet.

He felt it just as he reached for the truck handle—a sliver of unease, a chill that didn’t come from the air. He turned slowly.

A man stood across the street in the shadow of the old feed store, just inside the glow of a flickering streetlamp. Lean. Dressed in dark clothing. Holding... something.

A walking stick?

No. A crowbar.

Ronny squinted. “Hello?”

No answer.

The man stood still for another beat, then turned and walked down the sidewalk, disappearing behind the corner of the hardware store without a word.

Ronny waited. Watched.

Nothing.

He opened his truck, tossed the folder onto the passenger seat, and locked the doors the second he climbed in.

---

Back at home, Ronny triple-checked the locks and pulled the curtains. His house was rural enough that no one passed by without a reason. He’d always liked that about it. Tonight, the silence felt heavier.

He laid the copied maps and articles out across the dining room table, scanning them again with fresh urgency.

Who else knows about this?
Why now? Why after all these years?

And then he noticed something new.

The hand-drawn map—his original, the one from the thrift store—had a small crease at the top he hadn’t bothered unfolding before. He pulled it gently open, revealing what looked like another short message, nearly rubbed away by time.

"He followed me. I buried it near the twin sycamores."

There was no signature.

Ronny stared at the words until they started to blur. Someone was being followed—had been followed. And something had been buried. Not hidden in a house or stashed in a box. Buried.

He picked up the map and held it to the kitchen light, as if it might speak.

Then his landline rang.

He jumped.

Nobody called the landline anymore. Except maybe one telemarketer and Kelly when his cell signal dropped.

He picked up.

“Ronny Ellis?” a man’s voice asked.

“Who’s asking?”

A pause.

“You don’t know what you’re getting into. Some things are buried for a reason.”

Click.

The line went dead.

Ronny stood there for a long time, the dial tone humming in his ear.