⭐ CHAPTER TWO The Woman Behind the Curtain

The opening rush of customers at the Winter Craft Jubilee could charitably be described as “three people and a baby stroller.” But in Pine Knot County, that counted as foot traffic, and the retirees behind their tables snapped into performance mode faster than a Channel 8 weatherman during tornado season.

“Morning, folks!”

“Handmade ornaments — two for five!”

“Don’t touch that one, it’s glued!”

Everyone acted normal.

Everyone pretended everything was fine.

But every single vendor kept glancing toward the back curtain — that drooping, velvet-ish flap that now hung still and ominous, like it was hiding a secret nobody wanted.

I tried focusing on my own display table. My crocheted scarves lay neatly arranged in rainbow rows, and my cinnamon-wax sachets gave off a sweet, homey smell. But every time my mind calmed, a little whisper rose up:

Where is Lila Mae?

And more importantly:

What did she knock over back there?

My stepfather, Henry, was already on edge. He kept nudging me with the corner of his clipboard like it was a cattle prod.

“You should go look,” he muttered.

“You go look,” I muttered back.

He adjusted his glasses, pretending to study his sales sheet — an empty, depressing grid where hope went to wait for customers.

“I’m too old,” he said.

“And I’ve lived through enough electrical mishaps in this hall to know better.”

Across the aisle, Mrs. Doreen Caldwell, queen of the quilt guild and tyrant of the outlet strip, stood stiff as a fence post. She whispered to her sister, who whispered to her cousin, who whispered to the man selling wooden reindeer.

Within thirty seconds, everyone in the hall knew one thing:

Someone needed to check behind that curtain.

And by “someone,” they meant “not them.”

The longer Lila Mae stayed missing, the louder the tension got. Even the Christmas lights draped over the cafeteria tables seemed to buzz with unease.

Then the lights flickered — again.

A collective gasp rose from every throat.

Someone dropped a box of knitted dishcloths.

Someone else clutched their pearls like we were in a soap opera.

That’s when Miss Mabel — ninety-two years old, barely five feet tall, and equipped with a walker she treated like an all-terrain vehicle — came barreling toward us.

“I’ll check,” she announced.

“No!” half the room shouted.

But she was already powering forward, a determined blink in her eyes.

My heart jumped into my throat.

If anyone was going to disappear back there next, it would be her.

I hurried after her.

“Miss Mabel, hang on — we don’t know what’s back there!”

“A mess,” she said. “That’s what’s back there. And probably Lila stuck under a folding chair.”

She had a point.

We stopped at the curtain.

Up close, you could smell the dust — the old, stale kind that snowstorms and church-basement air can’t quite shake loose. Something rattled behind the divider, but it was faint, like the sound of a jar rolling on concrete.

Miss Mabel lifted the curtain with the end of her walker.

“Hello?” she called.

“You alive in here?”

Silence.

I swallowed.

The whole fair seemed to hold its breath.

Then, from somewhere in the shadowed alcove:

Thump.

A low groan.

A whisper of something dragging.

Miss Mabel squinted.

“That ain’t a folding chair.”

My pulse kicked up.

The hair on my arms rose.

This wasn’t funny anymore.

This wasn’t even “Pine Knot strange.”

Something was wrong.

Deeply wrong.

I took a step closer—

And that’s when the curtain suddenly jerked from the inside.

Miss Mabel screamed.

I screamed louder.

Someone across the hall shouted, “LORD HAVE MERCY!” like we were being raptured.

The curtain settled.

Still again.

Quiet.

Miss Mabel grabbed my arm with surprising strength.

“Child,” she whispered, “whatever’s in there— it ain’t just Lila Mae.”