Chapter Five: The Woman In Blue
As my body slumps against the door, adrenaline washes away, leaving me feeling emotionally raw. Thank goodness that confrontation is over. At one point, it seemed like the situation might get out of hand due to his aggressive attitude, but thankfully, it didn't. Once I feel steady again, I push away from the door and almost collide with Zeke. He is standing in front of me, looking concerned.
"You okay, Rocky?" he asks, but I'm not sure how to respond. Am I okay? In general, I guess I am, but emotionally, no, I definitely am not. The encounter has visibly shaken me. Why would Ted threaten me like that over this place? He must know something about the previous family and what happened. If that is the case, am I moving in across from a psychopath? My mind starts racing, going into overdrive. Zeke must notice my distress because he calls me again.
"Rocky?" His voice cuts through the noise in my head. "Did you hear me? Are you okay?"
"Yeah, Z, I'm fine. Just a bit shaken up." My voice comes out quieter than I expect, and I hate how unsteady it sounds. "Do you think we should call the police and report him, or should we let it go?"
"Yeah, I think we should call and make a report," he replies. "If nothing else, there needs to be a record of how he acted in case he tries something like this again." I know he is right because I am sure Ted is not finished with us yet; he seems determined to run us off or at least scare us away.
We contact the sheriff's office to report the situation. The friendly deputy who answers identifies himself as Deputy Lane and requests that I come by tomorrow to pick up an official copy of the complaint for my records. Zeke appears relieved after we finish the call, but I can't shake the sense that this might only be the beginning of more trouble. I hope I'm wrong. Zeke gently places his hands on my shoulders. I can't help but meet his gaze.
"Do you want to keep looking around?" he asks. "Maybe we can figure out what needs to be done first." I know he is trying to distract me from everything that happened, and I am grateful for it. Nodding, I let him lead me back to the living room.
On closer inspection, we notice the hardwood floors need to be sanded and refinished, and the walls need fresh paint. Two hours later, we are done with the bottom floor and have a good idea of what needs to be done.
"Z, were you serious about moving with me?" I figure now is the best time to ask.
"Of course. I wouldn't have said yes before if I didn't mean it," he replies. "What is your timeline for getting settled? Dad wants to start looking at places for business in the middle of next month." That works perfectly because I want to be moved in soon.
"I would like to be settled in there by the first of next month. We can live here while we renovate. The first few months will be rough, but I think we can do it," I say confidently. It gives me thirty days to get everything in order and ready. We decide to call it a night and head back to the city. We both have a lot to handle before then.
While packing my bedroom the next day, I face a tough choice: what to take and what to store temporarily. The task is difficult, especially because I keep uncovering memories of my mom scattered throughout the room. I recall the days when she would come in, using her key, and we would cook dinner together. Afterward, we would sit and talk at length about everything, sipping coffee or tea. In those moments, I felt nearest to her. I approach the dresser where a photo rests, pick it up, and gaze at my mom holding me closely when I was around three or four years old. She looks so young and lively. Mom was extraordinary. I often wonder how she managed to raise me alone; it must have been tough, yet she never once complained.
I wish she had shared more about her family or even revealed who my biological father was, but she never did. She always said, "It's me and you against the world, baby girl." There is no sign of grandparents, aunts, or uncles, so I believe her. If they cared, they would have tracked us down by now. The question constantly nags at me: what could have happened between Mom, her family, and my biological father? Carefully, I wrap the picture in bubble wrap and put it in a box. The following month is filled with packing and endless reminiscing.
My last night in the apartment is bittersweet. I move slowly from room to room, cherishing the memories I made here, knowing it is time to move on and create new ones. I am closing one chapter and beginning another as a homeowner.
That night as I sleep, another vision haunts me. The same woman in a blue summer dress appears again, signaling me to follow her, and I obey without hesitation. This time, I feel no fear, only curiosity about her motives. She walks gracefully through the farmhouse to the dining room, pointing at the same spot on the wall as before. Cautiously, I approach it and see a small door. The moment my fingertips touch the wooden surface, I jolt awake.
The uneasiness leaves me unsure what to make of what I saw. Questions start running through my mind: who is this woman, and why does she keep appearing to me? Checking out the wall in the dining room is at the top of my to-do list when I get to my new house. Zeke is going to think I've lost my mind if I tell him why I want to inspect it. I don't have time to dwell on it because the next few hours are occupied with the movers and the drive to the property. When we pull into the driveway, Zeke and his father, Mr. Anderson, are already there with his belongings.
"Hi, guys." I wave to them both as I get out of my vehicle. As I make my way to the porch, an overwhelming feeling that something isn't right washes over me. That's when I notice the front door is ajar, which is strange because I know it was locked the last time we left. I checked it twice before we left. I move closer to the entryway to see what has happened or to check if anyone is still inside when Zeke places his hand on my shoulder. The action makes me jump. I am so focused on the opening that I don't hear him walk up behind me.
"Calm down, it's just me," he says, his hand still steady on my shoulder. "Rocky, we need to call the sheriff. If someone is still in there, we shouldn't go inside." His dad nods in agreement.
"He's right, sweetheart," Mr. Anderson says. "They could find evidence or fingerprints." I agree with them, but all of this is overwhelming and frustrating, especially the things connected to the house: the nosy, rude neighbor; recurring visions; and now a break-in. Zeke pulls his phone out and starts making a call. He takes it upon himself to contact the sheriff for me. They tell him no one should enter the place, and they will send the nearest officer out as soon as possible.
As we apologize to the movers about the delay, we hear a car approaching. The unmistakable sound of tires crunching on the road grows louder. When it arrives in the driveway, I see the sheriff himself stepping out. Of all the officers, why does it have to be him? Ever since our first encounter, I have hoped to have minimal contact with him. We watch as he exits his vehicle and moves toward us, his intense, unsettling gaze fixed mainly on me. When he reaches us, he offers a smile that seems forced.
"Well, Miss Roxanne, I hear someone may have broken into your house?" he asks, and I brace myself for whatever comes next.
"Yes, sir. I'm not sure what happened, but the door is ajar, and it wasn't like that the last time we were here." I try to be as polite as possible—no need to get on his wrong side yet.
"Are you sure you didn't forget to lock the door?" he asks me with a smirk. Instantly, my body goes into defense mode. His tone is condescending, as if he is speaking to a small, naughty child. I really dislike this man, I think. Zeke and his father remain silent beside me, observing our exchange. I can only imagine they find the interaction confusing.
"Yes, I'm sure," I say. "I locked it myself when we left last time." His tone grates on my nerves.
"Don't get upset, little darlin'," he says, holding up one hand like he is calming a child. "I'm just making sure forgetfulness isn't the real culprit here. Happens to the best of us." He turns around as another squad car pulls into the drive. We watch as he and the other deputies examine the inside of the house, then walk the grounds. When they are finished, he approaches us again.
"There's no sign of anyone inside or on the grounds," he says, gesturing toward the house. "Sadly, we also didn't find any fingerprints or signs of forced entry. I can arrange for one of our patrol cars to monitor the area for any suspicious activity." He quickly shakes everyone's hand and then leaves.
After the sheriff leaves, the movers begin unloading everything into the house. The day has been long and exhausting, but the work is not yet finished. It takes nearly three hours to bring in all my things and Zeke's. By the time it's over, the sun is just beginning to set. Luckily, we live close enough to town to order pizza for dinner, since we are too tired to cook. I try to get Mr. Anderson to stay and eat with us.
"I'm sorry, guys, but I have to go home for dinner; Momma Anderson is waiting on me," he says with a smile on his face. "Once you guys are settled in, maybe we can come have dinner another night. You guys enjoy your pizza." He hugs us both when we walk him out to his truck.
While waiting for dinner, I decide to examine the dining room wall. Zeke joins me, curious about my interest. As we enter, my eyes focus on the exact spot the woman in the blue dress indicated in my vision. I see the wooden panel, but it is partly obscured behind a tall stand. I look at Zeke and signal for him to join me.
"Can you help me move this stand? I think there might be something behind that panel." He grabs the stand without question and shifts it out of the way. Crouching down, I open the hidden compartment and reach inside. My hand lands on a metal rectangular box. It reminds me of a small cash box or lockbox. Zeke's eyes widen in disbelief as he sees me pull it free.
"Rocky, how did you know that was there?" he asks.
Taking a deep breath, I try to explain. "You might think I'm crazy," I say, forcing myself to meet his eyes, "but I've been having vivid dreams lately. In them, the same woman in a blue dress appears and asks for my help. She told me to look at this wall in the dining room, which is why I knew exactly where to look." He appears skeptical of my explanation.
"Rocky, it's not that I think you're crazy." He looks from me to the box and back again. "But how can a dream possibly lead you to this?" To me, the question sounds more like he is asking himself than me.
"I know it might sound strange," I continue, "but the dream was so clear I couldn't dismiss it. It seemed like she was trying to communicate something crucial. That's why I had to look, and now we're here." Zeke is about to reply when suddenly, loud thumping noises from upstairs interrupt us, as if someone is walking down the hall.