Chapter 3: The Night Visitor

Dad wasn’t lying—the pig really did show up on its own.

It sounds like a tall tale, but Maple Heights runs on stories like that. Sometimes I think the town’s built from them.

The night Mr. Hawkins paid the deposit, a loud bang jolted me from sleep.

I was curled on an old cot, quilt pulled tight, night air leaking in through a cracked window.

Out past town, we keep a pigsty, raising a couple dozen sows. My folks worry about thieves, so they built a little shed out there and made me sleep in it to guard the pigs.

Frogs croaked, barn cats prowled. I kept a flashlight under my pillow, just in case.

The noise sounded like the pigsty gate getting smashed in.

It was louder than thunder, the kind of noise that makes you sit bolt upright.

I yanked on my coat, grabbed a brick for courage, snatched the flashlight, and limped outside.

The ground was freezing under my feet. My breath came out in white puffs. I gripped the brick like a lifeline.

"Who’s out there?"

My voice shook, but I tried to sound tough. Moonlight made everything look blue and strange.

Inside the pen, the sows were restless, noses twitching, eyes wide and shining.

"I see you!"

My heart pounded. Part of me expected a ghost or something worse.

The trees cast long shadows, and the wind bit through my coat. I shivered, trying to muster some backbone.

Every step was a struggle, my limp dragging me down. I thought about wild dogs, snakes, worse.

"Come out! I got a shotgun—I’ll shoot!"

Total bluff, but it sounded good in the dark.

I picked my way onto the muddy ground, flashlight beam bobbing.

The mud sucked at my boots, nearly made me fall. My hand shook so bad the light danced everywhere.

The iron gate was twisted, bent out of shape—but the sows just huddled, not even trying to escape.

I expected chaos, but it was like they were hiding something—or someone.

Every nerve in my body was buzzing.

My hands were slick with sweat, the brick slipping in my grip.

"I’m warning you—I’ll shoot!"

Oink oink oink oink—

A chorus of pig noises broke the silence, weirdly in tune. I froze, listening.

At the gate, my heart skipped. The steel bars were bent like a giant had squeezed them.

That kind of strength wasn’t human.

Suddenly, the sows parted, and a massive pink sow, ears like satellite dishes, stepped into the moonlight.

It moved slow, with the dignity of a parade float, skin smooth and pink, shining in the moonlight.

It looked almost spotless, like it’d just left a spa. I stared, half convinced I was dreaming.

Oink oink oink—

Its breath steamed in the cold night.

At the same time, all the sows looked up—and, just like people, curled their lips into a smile.

I blinked, then blinked again. The sight was so strange I nearly dropped my flashlight.

Next morning, my parents came to pick a sow for Mr. Hawkins. When they saw the busted gate, they lost it.

Mom’s voice could shatter glass. Dad’s face went purple. Before I could explain, Dad kicked me into the pen.

My bad leg twisted, and I landed face-first in the muck.

"Useless! Can’t even watch the animals!"

His boot left a bruise that lasted a week.

Mom snapped too. "These pigs are worth more than you! If any are missing, I’ll have your dad break your legs!"

I tried to crawl away, but she blocked me. Even the pigs watched, eyes cold as stone.

Mud smeared my face, the stink making me dizzy.

I spat out straw, the taste stuck with me all morning.

I wiped my face on my sleeve. My parents glared, faces hard.

I searched for any hint of softness—nothing but calculation.

In our house, love gets measured in pounds and dollars.

Oink oink—

A pink blur blocked my vision. The big sow from last night stood before me.

It looked at me with something like pity, its breath warm and grassy.

Oink oink—

It smelled more like hay than livestock. I reached out, half-expecting to get bit.

"Babe, this one’s not ours," Mom said, crouching to inspect the pig like it was a diamond.

Dad circled the sow, slapped its rump, and grinned, "This thing’s fatter than a barrel."

He licked his lips, already counting the profit.

Mom leaned in and sniffed. "This pig’s weird—it doesn’t stink, it actually smells nice."

She wrinkled her nose, impressed. Nothing about it made sense.

Dad sniffed too. "You’re right."

He whistled, a rare sound. For a second, he looked almost young.

He straightened up, eyes spinning with dollar signs. "Let’s slaughter it for Mr. Hawkins."

Mom hesitated. "What if someone comes looking?"

She chewed her lip, but greed won out.

"So what? Busted my gate, I oughta charge them," Dad said, puffing up.

Then he grabbed my hair and yanked me up. My scalp burned, but I kept quiet, blinking back tears.

"Go find someone to fix the gate!"

His voice cracked like a whip. I scrambled up, mud still caked behind my ears.