The mystery deepened when we found the second exit hidden behind a mountain of ancient, rotting hay bales. A section of the heavy wooden outer wall had been completely torn outward, leaving a jagged hole.
It was large enough for a grown man to crawl through, and the wood was splintered as if by immense force. Mark stepped through the gap first, his boots crunching on the dry grass outside.
A clear path of flattened, trampled weeds led away from the barn, weaving like a snake through the field. It didn’t lead toward the woods or the creek; it was heading straight for our back porch.
“It’s heavy,” I noted, pointing at how deep the impressions were in the soft Illinois soil. My theory about a giant bird was dead, replaced by a growing, cold dread about what was following us home.
As we neared the house, Mark grew unnaturally quiet, his jaw set in a hard, protective line. He signaled for me to stay behind him as we reached the steps of our own home.
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