Date: Mid-1983 Location: Rural Texas (or similar Southern state)
The oppressive heat of the Southern afternoon clung to me like a shroud. The discordant symphony of emotions intensified as I approached the secluded farmhouse, filtering into a chaotic blend of raw ambition, desperate yearning, and a pervasive, sickening undercurrent of unease.
Cars, some of them vintage, were parked haphazardly around the dilapidated property, and voices, loud and animated, drifted from inside. I crept closer, hiding behind a rusted tractor, my telepathy sharpening.
I saw a group of young adults, clad in various states of undress or casual, slightly disheveled clothing.
One man, burly with a bushy beard, was wrestling with a heavy camera. Another, slender and intense, barked directions.
A striking young woman, her thoughts brimming with a defiant confidence that bordered on desperation, was adjusting a sequined top. This was Jenna Ortega, I confirmed, her face more intense in person than on the magazine I'd glimpsed.
They were here for one purpose, a purpose that now felt deeply, horribly wrong. As I observed, a tall, red-haired man, the director, stepped out, wiping sweat from his brow.
His eyes, scanning the perimeter, landed on me. "Hey! What's a kid doing out here?" he yelled, his thoughts instantly shifting from film logistics to irritation and suspicion.
Just what we need. A goddamn kid. Probably lost. Or worse, a local trying to snoop. I froze, caught. My disguise felt flimsy under his gaze. Before he could call out again, my mind raced. I couldn't run; that would look guilty. I couldn't reveal myself.
But I could be useful. "Just… trying to find work," I mumbled, trying to project a nervous but eager innocence. "Saw the cars. Thought maybe… you needed a hand?" I subtly nudged his thoughts, just a whisper, planting the idea: harmless kid… strong for his age… could be useful for fetching things… cheap help.
He squinted, his initial annoyance warring with a flicker of convenience. He exchanged a look with the burly cameraman. "A hand, huh? You look a bit young for… this kind of work. What's your name, kid?" "Rupert," I offered.
The cameraman, RJ, a more pragmatic thinker, chimed in. "Hell, Wayne, we could use a gopher.
Someone to run cable, fetch water. Kid looks strong enough. Saves us from having to do it ourselves." His thoughts confirmed my subtle nudge had worked. Cheap labor, no questions asked. Wayne, the director, sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"Alright, Rupert. Don't touch anything without asking. You stick to RJ. He tells you what to do. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," I said, a wave of cold dread and grim curiosity washing over me. I was in.
My "job" on the set of The Farmer's Daughters was mostly manual labor. I hauled equipment, ran cables, set up lights. But with every task, my senses were on overdrive.
I wasn't just observing; I was dissecting. I used my telekinesis to subtly make heavy boxes feel lighter to me, allowing me to carry more than a typical fourteen-year-old.
I'd ensure a loose bolt on a lighting rig stayed secure, or make a prop fall "just right" on cue. My powers were proving invaluable in this mundane, yet bizarre, setting.
But it was the empathic and telepathic observations that truly chilled me. The young cast members – Maxine, Bobby-Lynne, Jackson, and even the seemingly unflappable Lorraine (Jenna Ortega) – their thoughts were a swirling mess of ambition, vulnerability, and growing unease.
They were focused on the film, on their big break. The true source of the dread, however, came from the elderly couple who owned the farm: Howard and Pearl.
Their minds were… twisted. Howard, outwardly frail, harbored a deep-seated resentment and a disturbing sense of perverse entitlement. Pearl, ancient and withered, projected a raw, agonizing jealousy, a furious, predatory hunger that set every alarm bell in my head screaming.
Their thoughts were fractured, often non-linear, but the underlying malice was undeniably clear. They don't belong here. Impure. Taking what's ours. The air grew thick with unspoken menace.
I found myself constantly scanning the shadows, my muscles tensed. I tried to subtly warn them, perhaps by creating a minor "accident" that would force them to leave, but there was no way to do so without drawing attention to myself, or without revealing the full extent of the danger.
They were too absorbed in their ambition, too blind to the true darkness blooming around them. The night came, thick and oppressive, heavy with the scent of damp earth and dread.
The filming was well underway when the first screams erupted. I was outside, packing up some equipment, when a sickening sound tore through the quiet.
Not the crack of thunder, but something wet, visceral. Maxine's thoughts, a moment before full of professional determination, suddenly erupted into pure, unadulterated terror.
She's here! She's got Jackson! My heart hammered against my ribs. I knew who "she" was. Pearl. The rage, the jealousy, it had finally boiled over. I raced around the side of the farmhouse, my black hair plastered to my sweating forehead.
I found Jackson, collapsed on the ground, a grotesque wound blooming on his neck.
Pearl stood over him, her ancient eyes burning with a horrifying triumph, a bloody pitchfork clutched in her gnarled hands.
My mind recoiled, overwhelmed by the sheer, unbridled malice radiating from her.
Filth! This is mine! She turned, her gaze locking onto me, recognizing me as the "boy from the house."
Her thoughts shifted, a new target. You saw. You will not tell. She raised the pitchfork, its prongs glinting in the pale moonlight, her face a mask of horrifying intent.
There was no time to think, no room for "precision." It was primal. It was instinct. My body screamed, my mind screamed.
The vast, destructive telekinetic force that had imploded the trailer surged through me, amplified by sheer terror and the desperate need to survive.
With a guttural roar that escaped my throat, I unleashed it. Not a push, not a nudge. A violent, concussive blast.
Pearl, pitchfork and all, was ripped from her feet, slammed backward with impossible force. The impact against the weathered side of the farmhouse was sickening, a wet thud that vibrated through the ground.
She collapsed, crumpled and unmoving, the pitchfork clattering beside her. Silence. The only sound was my own ragged breathing. I stared, my hands shaking violently.
My nose was gushing blood, staining my shirt. My head felt like it would split open, a searing pain behind my eyes.
I stumbled backward, away from the sight, away from the knowledge of what I had done.
She was… she was dead. I had killed her. The image of the rat, twitching, convulsing, flashed in my mind, but this was different. This was a human being.
A monstrous human being, perhaps, but a life taken by my hand. The weight of it was suffocating. I wasn't just observing the darkness of America anymore.
I was a part of it. And my hands, once used for subtle nudges, were now capable of lethal force. I had killed. And the horror of it was only just beginning.