Chapter 4: The Healer's Warning

Chapter 4: The Healer's Warning

The scritch-scratch from the display case was the sound of a fuse burning down to the dynamite. Leo didn’t wait to see if the taxidermy squirrel would do anything else. He snatched the small leather journal from the desk, grabbed the photograph of Steffy and the dark-haired woman, and bolted for the door. The image of those glittering glass eyes, imbued with a malevolent awareness, was burned into his retinas. His home wasn't just breached; it was compromised from the inside out.

He wrenched open the door of his Chevy, pointedly ignoring the bird’s nest still sitting on the passenger seat, a festering relic of the previous day’s horror. He shoved the key into the ignition, and the engine roared to life with a defiant rumble that felt like his own screaming protest. Driving through Dam’s End, he felt a thousand invisible eyes on him. The town, which had once seemed merely quiet and grey, now felt predatory, its silence a hunter’s stillness.

Clara Thorne’s clinic was just off the main street, a tidy saltbox house distinguished only by a small, hand-carved wooden sign that read: “C. Thorne, Herbalist & Healer.” Smoke curled from its chimney, carrying the scent of pine and something sharper, like camphor. It looked peaceful, but Leo knew better. This was the other half of his aunt’s command center.

He pounded on the heavy oak door, his knuckles striking the wood with a force that bordered on manic. "Clara Thorne!" he called out, his voice cracking. "I need to talk to you! It's about Steffy Vance!"

For a long moment, there was no answer. He was about to pound on the door again when it opened a few inches, held fast by a chain lock. A pair of intense, knowing eyes—the same eyes from the photograph—peered out at him. They were dark, wary, and held no welcome.

"The clinic is closed," a low voice said.

"I don't need a healer," Leo panted, holding up the photograph. "I need answers. My aunt was Steffy. She wrote about you."

Clara’s gaze flickered from Leo’s desperate face to the faded photo in his hand. Her expression remained unreadable, carved from stone. "Steffy is gone. Whatever business you had with her is finished."

"It's not finished," Leo insisted, his voice rising in pitch. "It's just getting started. For me. They're playing with me, Clara. The children. They know my name. They left teeth in my truck. One of my aunt's stuffed squirrels just moved."

At the mention of the moving squirrel, a flicker of something—alarm, perhaps recognition—crossed her face. It was there and gone in an instant.

"You're hysterical," she said flatly, preparing to close the door.

"No!" He shoved the small journal against the door. "She wrote it all down. The Hollow Children. The wards. The Watchers. I know you were her partner."

The sight of the journal finally broke through her defenses. He saw her shoulders slump, a subtle surrender, the weary collapse of a soldier forced back to a battle she thought she’d escaped. The chain slid free with a metallic rattle.

"Get inside," she commanded, her voice low and urgent. "And bring your chaos with you."

The interior of the house was dim and smelled powerfully of drying herbs, beeswax, and damp earth. Bunches of lavender, sage, and plants Leo couldn’t name hung from the rafters. Shelves overflowed with apothecary jars filled with murky liquids and dried botanicals. It was Steffy’s house, but with a different focus: less academic, more primal. This was not a place of research; it was a place of practice.

Clara led him to a small wooden table. She took the journal from his hand, her long fingers tracing the cover as if greeting an old, painful memory. "I told her to burn these," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "Steffy always believed in evidence. I believe in letting the dead rest."

"They're not resting," Leo said, the words tumbling out. "They're escalating. The pranks, the effigy of my truck, the whispers… Steffy’s journal said they 'play' with newcomers."

"Play?" Clara gave a short, bitter laugh that held no humor. "That’s Steffy’s academic term for it. It's not a game, Leo. It's a tasting. A test of spiritual fortitude. They're seeing if you'll break. They're measuring you." She looked up, her dark eyes pinning him in place. "Steffy and I… we were what the old families called 'Watchers.' It's not a title you choose. It's a burden you inherit or a responsibility you're foolish enough to accept. We kept the balance."

"Balance? What balance?"

"We placated them," she explained, her voice a low thrum of grim reality. "Left offerings at the woods' edge. Maintained the old wards. Kept them focused on the forest, where they belong. It was a fragile peace, a truce paid in small rituals and constant vigilance. We kept them content, so they wouldn't turn their full attention to the town."

She gestured around the room. "This town is full of widows for a reason. The Children… they have a taste for outsiders. New energy. Especially men. They see them as intruders in their playground."

The words of his neighbor, Mrs. Steinhop, slammed back into him. A town of widows. It wasn’t a quirk; it was a symptom of the curse.

"When Steffy got sick," Clara continued, her voice softening with a deep, old grief, "the wards around her house began to fail. Her strength was tied to them. With her gone, the house is just a house. An empty fortress with its gates wide open. They aren’t just playing with you, Leo. They are moving into the power vacuum she left behind. They are laying a claim."

A cold dread spread through Leo’s chest, a chilling comprehension of his true predicament. "Claiming me? What does that mean?"

"It means they are weaving you into their story, their tragedy," she said, her expression terrifyingly serious. "They're taking little pieces of you. Your name, the image of your truck, your peace of mind. Soon they will want more. A photograph from your wallet. A memory from your mind. Your life force. They want to make you one of their playmates. Forever."

The healer’s warning landed with the force of a physical blow. This wasn’t about being haunted; it was about being spiritually dismantled, piece by piece.

"Her journal mentions rituals," Leo said, his voice desperate. "Protections. I have to do something."

Clara’s face hardened with a fatalistic certainty. "Steffy’s methods were about containment, not destruction. You can’t fight them, not in the way you’re thinking. You can only reinforce the boundaries. But I fear you're too late for that. The squirrel… if they can animate an object inside the house, a totem your aunt herself created…" She trailed off, standing up abruptly. Her eyes were wide with a sudden, dawning horror.

"What is it?" Leo asked, his own panic rising to meet hers.

"Steffy's taxidermy wasn't just a hobby," Clara said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "They were wards. Guardians. Each one was a vessel, filled with protective charms and consecrated objects, meant to be a silent watcher on the wall. If they can get inside one, twist it to their purpose…"

Her warning came crashing down on him. He hadn't just witnessed a creepy paranormal event. He had witnessed the capture of a strategic defense post.

"You have to go home. Now," Clara commanded. "Check every room. Don't touch anything that seems out of place. They don't just move things, Leo. They leave things. They create."

He didn't need to be told twice. He ran from her house, the scent of herbs and dread clinging to him. The short drive back felt like an eternity. He left the Chevy running in the driveway, its door hanging open, and burst into his house.

The air inside was cold and heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and something else… ozone, like the air after a lightning strike. He moved through the living room, his eyes darting everywhere. Everything seemed to be in its place. The dread eased slightly. Maybe he’d gotten back in time.

Then he entered the den, where his aunt's main desk sat.

And he saw it.

Sitting in the center of Steffy’s worn leather desk chair was a new creation. A new squirrel. It was a grotesque parody of his aunt’s meticulous work, a mockery of her craft. It was fashioned from twigs, black mud, and rotting moss, crudely bound together with strands of what looked like his own brown hair. Its body was lumpy and misshapen, its limbs twisted at unnatural angles.

And clutched in its muddy, twig-like paws, held forward like an offering or a threat, was a single, rust-brown, bent nail. The same nail he’d seen the little girl tracing patterns with in the woods.

His sanctuary was not just breached. It had been desecrated. And sitting in his dead aunt's chair was a message, a declaration of ownership, fashioned from the forest's rot and his own stolen self. They weren't just watching him anymore. They were remaking his world in their own twisted image.