Chapter 9 – Dawes Farm

They reached the turnoff to the old Dawes property just before noon.

The gravel road was little more than a pair of ruts now, overgrown with grass and flanked by barbed wire fences long since rusted through. Trees leaned in from both sides, forming a tunnel of shadow that felt colder than the sunny spring air should allow. As they drove deeper into the woods, Maya checked the coordinates again.

“This is it,” she said quietly, watching the blue dot settle on the pin. “Straight ahead, maybe another quarter mile.”

Ronny’s truck creaked and groaned as it bumped along the uneven path. Branches scraped the sides like fingers. The woods opened suddenly into a clearing—and there it was.

The barn.

It stood alone at the edge of the field, its red paint faded to pink and gray, the roof slumping like an old man’s shoulders. One of the big double doors hung open slightly, swaying with the breeze. Behind it, the remains of a farmhouse stood in ruin—collapsed porch, chimney leaning precariously, vines coiled around shattered windows.

“This place hasn’t been touched in years,” Ronny said.

“Not officially, anyway,” Maya replied, already unbuckling her seatbelt.

They stepped out. Birds scattered from the grass. The silence here was different—thick, watchful.

Ronny walked slowly toward the barn, every footstep muffled by a bed of soft pine needles and damp earth. The closer he got, the more familiar it looked—not from memory, but from the photograph. The boards. The shape of the roof. Even the crooked weathervane. This was it.

The place in the picture.

Maya stayed by the truck for a moment, scanning the tree line behind them.

“I don’t like how quiet it is out here,” she muttered.

Ronny pushed open the barn door.

It groaned like it hadn’t moved in years. Dust filled the air in a shimmering cloud, and the scent of mold, wood rot, and old hay hit him like a wave.

Inside, the barn was mostly empty.

No tools. No equipment. Just the skeleton of a loft above, a few rotted bales of hay along the far wall, and a dirt floor.

But in the center of the barn, something broke the emptiness.

A single wooden chair.

Placed precisely beneath the broken window, with a bundle of something resting on the seat.

Ronny hesitated. “You seeing this?”

Maya stepped beside him. “Yeah... and I don’t like it.”

He moved forward cautiously. The bundle was a folded piece of fabric, tied with twine. Old. Carefully placed. He untied the string and opened it slowly.

Inside was another map.

Hand-drawn, like the one Margie had hidden—but this one cruder, newer, and missing the elegance of her careful sketches. There were no annotations, no place names. Just a few jagged lines, an “X,” and one message written across the top in bold black marker:

“YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY ONES LOOKING.”

Maya inhaled sharply. “Someone’s been here. Recently.”

Ronny nodded. “And they knew we’d come.”

He folded the new map slowly, glancing around the barn. “This was left for us.”

“Or as a warning.”

Just then, a sound echoed across the clearing—distant but unmistakable.

The click of a camera shutter.

They spun around, but saw nothing. Only trees. Stillness. The wind.

Maya grabbed his sleeve. “Let’s go.”

They jogged back to the truck, eyes scanning the woods. No figures. No movement. But the feeling—the weight of being watched—clung to them like humidity.

As Ronny started the engine and turned the truck around, he kept one eye on the rearview mirror.

“Someone’s following the same trail Margie left,” he said. “But they’re not trying to solve the mystery.”

Maya looked down at the new map, now clenched in her lap.

“They’re trying to bury it.”