I wasn’t even fully awake yet, and I still couldn’t wrap my head around what had happened. One minute I was in bed, thinking it was just another ordinary Thursday, and the next I heard this strange scraping sound outside—metal dragging across wood or something like that. I assumed it was the trash bins tipping over again.
But when I walked into the kitchen, I stopped cold.
The lower half of our back door was completely destroyed. Not open—gone. It looked like something had slammed right through it, leaving jagged pieces of wood everywhere. The latch was barely hanging on by a single screw. And there, standing right in the middle of our patio like he belonged there, was Oscar.
Our horse. Yeah, a horse.
We live on a small piece of land—nothing fancy. Oscar usually stays in the paddock out back. He’s older, calm, not prone to drama. But now he was panting, covered in dirt and sweat, and around his neck—no kidding—was the busted piece of our door, hanging like some kind of warped collar. It looked like he’d barreled through the door and just kept moving forward.
I didn’t know what to check first.
I looked for injuries—nothing, thank God. But his eyes were wild, like he’d been spooked by something bad and hadn’t quite come down from it yet. And the strangest part? The latch on his paddock was still locked.
I haven’t told Sam yet—he’s at work—and the neighbors already think we’re teetering on the edge out here. So I just stood there barefoot, staring at my sweaty, dirt-covered horse with part of our door dangling from his neck like a message I didn’t understand.
Then, just beyond the yard, near the tree line—I saw it. Movement. Quick and low, like someone ducking out of sight. My pulse jumped. We don’t get much foot traffic around here. The closest neighbor is half a mile away, and no one should be in those woods unless they’re trespassing—or hiding.
I pulled open the drawer next to the fridge, grabbed the flashlight, and stepped cautiously onto the patio. Oscar didn’t move. He just stood there, calm now, like he’d done what he came to do. And then it hit me—he had.
This wasn’t a random panic. He hadn’t tried to flee—he’d tried to get to me.
I gave him a quiet pat. “What were you trying to tell me, old man?” I whispered.
I didn’t plan on going into the woods alone—not without calling Sam or the sheriff—but sometimes curiosity overrules fear. I stayed at the edge of the yard, scanning with the flashlight, and then I saw it.
A small backpack. Just barely visible behind a fallen log. And next to it, a child. A little girl, maybe nine or ten. Her hair was a mess, her face smudged with dirt, knees pulled tight to her chest. When the light landed on her, she didn’t move. She just stared back at me.
I called softly, “Hey, sweetie…”