Chapter 7: The Sheriff's Blind Eye

Chapter 7: The Sheriff's Blind Eye

The shattered eggs on the pavement were a perfect metaphor for Leo’s shattered reality. He stood there for a long moment, the yoke-yellow eyes of his spilled groceries staring up at the oppressive grey sky. The stories from Mrs. Steinhop—Abernathy, the hunter; Cole, the artist—played on a loop in his mind, each a grim verse in Dam’s End’s funereal anthem. He was next in line. The pranks, the effigies, the games… it was all a macabre fattening of the calf for slaughter.

Clara’s fatalism, her talk of placating and appeasing, suddenly felt like a death sentence. Leo wasn't ready to accept that. He was a citizen. He had rights. Someone had broken into his house, vandalized his property, and was engaged in a campaign of psychological terror that, according to local history, was a prelude to his murder. This wasn't a matter for folk magic; it was a matter for the law.

A last, defiant spark of his old-world logic flared to life. He would not be another quiet "accident." He would not be another sad story for the next newcomer to hear. He would go to the police. He would file a report. He would force the sanity of the outside world onto this cursed town, even if he had to drag it here kicking and screaming.

Leaving the mess on the sidewalk, he got back in his truck and drove the two blocks to the Sheriff's station. It was a small, unassuming brick building with a single, dusty patrol car parked out front. The sign hanging by the door was weathered, reading "Sheriff Brody, Est. 1998." It looked solid, dependable, a relic of a world where problems could be solved with paperwork and a firm hand.

The inside of the station smelled of stale coffee and old paper. A large man with a thick, grey-streaked mustache sat behind a metal desk, patiently sorting through a stack of mail. He wore a crisp tan uniform, and his face was a roadmap of weathered lines that suggested a lifetime of dealing with minor disputes and major boredom. He looked up as Leo entered, his expression placid.

"Help you?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.

"I hope so," Leo said, stepping forward. "I'm Leo Vance. I inherited the old Steffy Vance place out on the edge of the woods."

"Ah, the Vance boy," Sheriff Brody said, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. He leaned back in his squeaky chair. "Welcome to Dam's End. Hope the town's treating you well."

The question was so jarringly normal it almost threw Leo off. "Not exactly," he said, taking a breath to steady himself. "I need to report a series of incidents. Vandalism, trespassing, harassment… and breaking and entering." He decided to lead with the crimes, the tangible things, before delving into the abyss of the supernatural.

Brody picked up a pen and a notepad, his expression one of polite, professional interest. "Alright, son. Lay it on me."

Leo began, his voice surprisingly steady as he recounted the events. He started with the pinecone spiral, moved to the deep scratch on his truck, then to the bird's nest filled with human teeth left inside the locked cab. At the mention of the teeth, Brody's pen paused for a fraction of a second, the only sign that he was truly listening.

"And last night," Leo continued, his voice dropping, "someone got inside my house. I'd been out, and when I came back, they had built… an effigy. A little doll, made of mud and twigs, in the shape of a squirrel. They left it in my aunt's chair." He decided to leave out the part about his own hair, fearing it would push him firmly into the 'crazy' category. He was already toeing the line. "The door was locked. Nothing was stolen. They just left… that."

He finished, his chest tight with the effort of relaying the madness in a sane, orderly fashion. He looked at Brody, praying for a sign of alarm, of action.

The Sheriff set his pen down slowly. He steepled his fingers and looked at Leo with an expression of deep, paternal patience that was infinitely more infuriating than disbelief.

"Mr. Vance… Leo," he began, his voice calm and soothing. "You're a city fella. I get it. You're not used to the quiet out here. An overactive imagination can get the better of anyone."

"This isn't my imagination," Leo insisted, his frustration building. "My truck is damaged. Someone is coming onto my property."

"And we'll look into the vandalism," Brody assured him. "But the other things… the pinecones, the dolls… son, this town has stories. Ghost stories. The Hollow Children are a local legend we tell to spook the tourists. Kids hear these stories. And kids these days… they can be mean. It's likely just some local teenagers trying to scare the newcomer. It's happened before."

"They got inside my locked house," Leo repeated, his voice rising. "This is more than teenagers."

"Are you sure you locked it?" Brody asked, his tone gentle, questioning Leo’s own faculties. "Easy mistake to make when you're stressed. Look, I'll put the word out. Ask around, talk to some of the parents. But my advice to you? Put up a 'No Trespassing' sign. Maybe some motion-activated floodlights. Ninety-nine percent of the time, that's enough to scare off any mischief-makers."

He offered Leo a small, placating smile. The dismissal was total. He was being patted on the head, told his monsters weren't real, and sent on his way. The system hadn't just failed; it had laughed in his face. Leo knew there was no point in arguing further. He mumbled a thank you and walked out, the bell on the door chiming his defeat.

He sat in his truck, stewing in a potent cocktail of rage and despair. He was well and truly alone. Clara was right. The town was a closed loop, and its authorities were useless. He felt a fool for even trying. He started the engine, the familiar grumble of the Chevy doing nothing to comfort him.

As he prepared to pull away from the curb, he glanced in his rearview mirror. He saw Sheriff Brody step out of the station. The Sheriff stood on the sidewalk for a moment, looking left, then right, as if checking for traffic or witnesses. Then, instead of heading to his patrol car, he walked across the street.

He wasn't walking towards a house or the general store. He was walking towards the small patch of woods that bordered the town square.

Leo's hands tightened on the steering wheel. He watched, transfixed, as Brody reached the tree line. From his uniform pocket, the Sheriff pulled a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. It was about the size of a candy bar. He knelt down, his movements practiced and familiar, and placed the small offering at the base of a large, gnarled oak tree. He didn't linger. He simply stood, brushed the dirt from his knees, and walked back to his office as if he’d just mailed a letter.

The truth hit Leo with the force of a physical impact, knocking the wind from his lungs.

The law wasn't powerless. The Sheriff wasn't dismissive because he didn't believe. He was dismissive because he did believe. He wasn't just turning a blind eye to the problem; he was actively participating in the town’s twisted solution. The offerings Clara had mentioned, the appeasement, the placating… the town's chief law enforcement officer was part of it. He was leaving candy for the monsters in the woods.

The Sheriff wasn’t there to protect the townspeople from the Children. He was there to protect the Children from outside interference. He was a gatekeeper, maintaining the fragile, horrifying truce. And Leo wasn’t a citizen to be protected. He was an outsider, a variable, and potentially, just another sacrifice required to keep the peace. The system hadn't just failed him. It was actively working against him.