Silent Acres

Arrival The "Welcome to Ashwood" sign leaned just enough to look tired. Rust curled at the edges. The sky-blue paint flaked in strips, exposing gray wood underneath. A Friendly Farm Town Since 1887. Mae let her foot ease off the gas. Fields stretched in every direction—golden, brittle, quiet. A row of grain silos cast long shadows across the gravel road. The air smelled like sweet rot and soil trying to hold its breath. She rolled up the window. Main Street appeared like something exhumed. Beckett's Hardware. The Ashwood Diner. Two old men on a bench out front, same posture, new faces. A girl on a bike darted past, looked once, then kept her head down. Storefronts blinked in the heat like they couldn't quite stay awake. The town had frozen itself in 2005. Let the edges wear down naturally. Mae gripped the wheel tighter. Her fingers tapped against the steering column. Rehearsing questions: When was the field sold? Who found the truck? Why now? The email from her editor was still starred: "Buried pickup in Ashwood, skeletal remains. Cold case might be cracking. Locals whispering." She hadn't replied. Just packed, booked a car... and told herself it wasn't about Amanda. The road narrowed as she drove deeper in. Her stomach tightened passing the high school sign—still missing the "L" in "WELCOME BACK EAGLES." That sign had been broken when she left. Still was. It wasn't nostalgia. It was memory, stripped of softness. The funeral had been the last time. Closed casket. Amanda Doyle, seventeen, vanished after the county fair. They said she ran. They all said something different, but they all said it like they wanted the conversation over. Now they knew better. Up ahead, a cluster of people lined the edge of a cornfield. Yellow tape fluttered along the perimeter. A sheriff's cruiser sat half on the road, door open. The soil had been gouged open—dark, wet, uneven. A backhoe loomed beside the dig, stilled mid-motion. She slowed. No one turned to look at her. Just a wall of backs, arms crossed, still as corn stalks before a storm. The truck sat sunken in the dirt, half-exposed. Rusted blue. A smear of old paint across the driver's door. The bed was full of mud and corn husks. One red shoelace dangled from the tailgate—bright as a wound, swinging in the breeze. Amanda's truck. Mae didn't stop. She kept rolling past, breath locked somewhere behind her ribs. Ashwood hadn't changed. But the dead had started talking. *** The Dig Site She passed the site, heart thudding. Five minutes later, Mae turned the car around. Pulled off the road just past a ditch and killed the engine. The gravel crunched under her boots as she stepped out. The light was slipping—dusk settling in, soft orange bleeding into gray. The field breathed quiet. She clipped her press badge to her jacket and walked toward the yellow tape. Heads turned. Locals watched her approach—some with squinting suspicion, others with something like recognition. She heard her name in passing, or almost-name. "That's a Connors girl." "Maeve, right?" She didn't answer. Just kept walking. A deputy stepped forward to block her path. Mae stopped. Raised her badge. Beyond the tape, a backhoe loomed like a creature mid-feast, chain hooked to something half-buried. The soil around it had been chewed up—dark, wet, slumping inward. Corn stalks lay broken and scattered, jagged at the edges. Like the ground itself had been opened with violence. The deputy glanced at her badge, then called over his shoulder. "Sheriff." From behind the machinery came the slow, deliberate gait of Sheriff Hank Delaney. Thicker now, but still upright. Uniform stretched across the stomach. That same ruddy skin and sun-squinted expression that made him look like he'd been carved from the town itself. He came close enough to cast a shadow. "Well, look what the storm blew back." Mae kept her expression still. "Just here for the story." Delaney looked down at her badge like it might bite. Then back at her, taking his time. "You could've called ahead." "Didn't want to miss the scoop." He grunted. "Five minutes. Stay clear of the crew. If something falls on you, it's your mess." She stepped under the tape. The ground was soft, unstable. Mud sucked at her boots. The smell thickened—metal, turned earth, the sour sweetness of crushed corn. She moved carefully, skirting a pile of fresh-dug roots and tangled stalks. A deputy gave her a sideways look but didn't say a word. The truck was nearly out of the earth now. A battered shell rotted through by rust and memory. The side panel peeled like old bark. The windshield was long gone. The cabin collapsed inward, hollow as a grave. Then she saw it. Beneath the dirt and rust—blue paint. Faded, familiar. Her eyes dropped to the back bumper. A cracked license plate clung to the frame by one bolt, hanging loose. The numbers. Amanda's truck. No question. Mae froze. A picture bloomed behind her eyes—Amanda's hand on the steering wheel, flicking the radio, laughing like she'd never stop. Gone. She didn't realize she'd stopped breathing until the world slid back in—chains groaning, insects buzzing, boots shuffling across dry ground. This wasn't the end of the story. It had just been waitng underground. *** Flashback Fragment – Amanda's Laugh The wind shifted. Something rustled in the corn. Mae didn't move. She kept her eyes on the truck. And for a second—just a second—she heard it. Amanda's laugh. Bright. Unbothered. Sharp as sunlight off metal. It rose above the clatter of the fairground, echoing like it had somewhere to be. Mae saw the Ferris wheel turning in slow circles, the two of them at the top. Fifteen. Amanda in cutoff shorts and a tank top with a smear of ketchup on the hem. Her feet up on the safety bar, one pink sneaker dangling. Mae had been nervous. Amanda had leaned back like she could balance on the wind. "This town's so small," Amanda had said, eyes scanning the lights below. "Like if you dropped it, it'd shatter." Somewhere down below, a country ballad played over busted speakers. Sweet and off-key. Cotton candy stuck to Amanda's fingers. She wiped it on her shirt and grinned. Then the wheel lurched forward and they both screamed—Amanda louder, laughing again like nothing could ever catch her. Mae blinked. The truck was still there. Half-risen. The license plate still swinging. Amanda's voice was gone. Mae felt the sting behind her eyes. Bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. No tears. Not here. She pulled a notebook from her jacket. Clicked the pen. The sound was too loud in the quiet. She began to write before the feeling could settle. *** Confrontation with Delaney Mae capped her pen, slid the notebook into her pocket. Footsteps behind her. Heavy, deliberate. "Don't write your headline just yet," Sheriff Delaney said. "Let the lab confirm it before you start naming ghosts." She turned. He stood just inside the tape, arms crossed, face unreadable in the last of the light. Mae didn't flinch. "You know whose truck that is." "I know it looks like a lot of things," he said. "Rust plays tricks. We've had false IDs before." She took a step closer. "Did you ever look back at the 2004 case? After Amanda disappeared?" Delaney let out a breath through his nose. Slow. He scrubbed a hand down his jaw, like the question scratched something raw. "You're not a cop, Mae. You're here to write. So write what you see—not what you want to see." She kept her vooice steady. "That's not an answer." He shifted his weight, looked past her toward the field like it might offer him a way out of the conversation. "The department followed leads. We conducted interviews. It was ruled a missing persons case. No signs of foul play." "No body, no signs," she said. "That's what you told everyone." He looked at her then, really looked. "Her mom kept setting the dinner table for three. For months. You don't forget something like that." Mae stayed silent. Delaney straightened. Adjusted the leather strap of his belt, like it might help him hold the line. "You think I didn't care?" he said. "I sat in that living room. I watched them fall apart. We searched for weeks." "But you stopped." His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Mae studied him. The badge. The uniform. The weight of a man who'd stayed long enough to let the dust settle around his mistakes. "The uniform hadn't changed," she said. "Neither had the instinct to shut down anything that didn't fit the official version of things." "You know this isn't just about Amanda," she added. Delaney's expression iced over. "Careful what you're implying." "I'm not implying anything. Yet." The wind moved across the corn behind them. Dry husks clattered against one another—like something whispering, just out of hearing. Delaney squinted at the horizon. "You want to help? Don't stir up more grief than we've already got. This town's been through enough." Mae nodded once. Cold. "It has." She turned and walked back toward the road. Past the tape. Past the crowd that had already started thinning. If they wouldn't give her answers, she'd find them herself. *** Checking In Mae turned onto Sycamore Lane and let the car idle in the driveway. The house looked the same. White brick, black shutters, boxwoods clipped into tight, unnatural shapes. Not a leaf out of place. The porch light already on, though the sun hadn't full set. It looked like a photograph. A little too perfect. A little too still. She took a breath. Turned off the engine. Opened the door and stepped into the hush of early evening. Her boots made soft thuds up the walkway. By the time she reached the porch, the front door opened. Dot Connors stood there. Lipstick perfect. Hair set in a smooth silver twist. Hair set in a smooth silver twist. One hand rested on the doorframe like she'd been waiting. Or bracing. Her lips twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a wince. "You're early," she said. Mae didn't smile. "Couldn't stay away from the story." Dot's eyes flicked to the suitcase. "You didn't say you'd be staying here." "You didn't say I couldn't." Dot stepped aside, holding the door with two fingers. "Of course. Your room's exactly as you left it." Mae walked in. The air inside was still and cold. The smell of lemon polish ht immediately—sharp, clean, deliberate. Nothing out of place. Not even the quiet. The hallway was lined with framed photos. School portraits, holiday snapshots. One showed her, age six, holding a blue ribbon and a slice of watermelon, grinning so wide her eyes disappeared. Her father had called that a lucky day. They hadn't made many since. Dot stood motionless near the door as Mae passed. She stepped aside just enough. Their shoulders brushed. Mae didn't look back. Up the stairs, left turn. Her old room. She opened the door and stepped inside. It was untouched. The pale blue bedspread. The bookshelf lined with paperbacks and participation trophies. A framed ribbon from the 2002 science fair still hung by the window. She set the suitcase down. The silence pressed in again. Not heavy. Just practiced. She sat on the edge of the bed. The springs creaked in a way she remembered. On the nightstand: a small photo frame, still in place. She picked it up. It was her and Amanda. Fair night. Both of them in hoodies, faces pink from laughter. Mae had forgotten someone had taken it. She stared at it for a long time. She was gone. But someone had brought her back. ***