The Blackwood Ridge massacre of 1995 shook the entire state. Three escaped convicts brutally murdered a forest ranger and his entire family—nine souls in total. Only the nine-year-old youngest daughter survived. When she was attacked, she fell beneath the open planks of the staircase, barely escaping with her life. But she was left permanently crippled, trapped in a lifetime of agony and suffocating regret. I am that youngest daughter. And I have just been reborn. Right back to ten minutes before the slaughter begins. 1 July 27, 1995. 10:00 AM. This exact date and time are burned into my soul. After turning nine, my life in the previous timeline was confined to a wheelchair. No family left. Only endless terror and whispers of what-ifs. Why did I open the door for them? Deep down, I knew that even if I hadn't opened it, they would have broken in anyway. But a part of me always clung to that desperate, foolish illusion. Now, I am back. In exactly ten minutes, they will knock on our door. 2 I looked back into the cabin. My elderly grandparents were sitting in the corner, braiding heavy jute rope. The rope wouldn't fetch much at the local market; they just couldn't bear to let their hands sit idle. Dad hadn't gone out to patrol the ridges today. It was a rare treat to have him home, mostly because Mom was away visiting her sister in the next county. My second older brother, Tommy, had wrecked his dirt bike and busted his leg, so he was home recovering. His wife, Jessica, was holding their two-year-old daughter, Lily, complaining endlessly about his recklessness. Her belly was noticeably round—in a month, my second nephew would be born. In just a few days, Mom was supposed to come back and take her to the county hospital to wait for the delivery. My oldest brother, David, worked a corporate job in the city. He had sent his two kids back to the mountains for summer vacation. The boy was twelve. His name was Ethan. True to his name, he was already five feet tall and built like a truck. Right now, he was outside helping Dad split firewood. The girl, Grace, was two years older than me. A bit spoiled. In those days, in the deep backcountry, it wasn't weird for a niece or nephew to be older than their aunt. Terrified of the sun, Grace had pitched a large patio umbrella on the second-floor deck, curled up underneath it reading comic books. "Hey, looks like someone's coming!" her sharp voice rang out. In my past life, she was the first to spot them too. But everyone in the yard ignored it. Blackwood Ridge was isolated and rugged. The only people who ever stumbled up here were lost hikers. Mountain folks are hospitable. We would always cook them a hearty meal, and then Dad would guide them back to the main highway. It was no different this time. Ten minutes later, they knocked. I had eagerly run to open the door, letting them in. Dad welcomed them warmly. Grandpa stoked the woodstove. Grandma started slicing our home-cured ham. Jessica handed baby Lily to Tommy and helped wash the vegetables. Grace was dragged down to help, rolling her eyes with every step. Tommy even chatted with one of them about his dirt bike injury. Dad went down to the root cellar to fetch a jar of blackberry moonshine he’d buried the previous winter. It was a joyful feast. But just as Dad asked whether they wanted to stay the night or head out while the sun was still up, the atmosphere shattered. One of the men reached out and grabbed Jessica. 3 It all happened so fast. I was upstairs on the second floor, trying to put baby Lily down for a nap. She was fussy and restless, which made me anxious. Suddenly, a strange sound echoed from downstairs. Short, sharp, instantly cut off. Then, a blood-curdling shriek. I flew to the window. The yard had turned into a living hell. Dad was slumped over the wooden table, blood jetting from his throat. Grandpa and Grandma were on the floor, one face down, one face up, their necks nearly severed. Ethan had been struck with his own wood-splitting axe, his skull split open, his body still twitching on the dirt. Those three men—one was overpowering Tommy, one was pinned on top of Jessica, and the third was dragging Grace toward the door. I shoved my fist into my mouth and bit down hard. It wasn't a nightmare. It was real. Right then, Lily burst into a loud, frantic cry. The man dealing with Tommy finished his grim work, snapped his head up, and glared at me with cold, dead eyes. I spun around, scooped up Lily, and ran. The stairs leading from the second floor to the third were made of open-backed wooden planks. I tripped. The man bounded up the steps, closing the distance in seconds. He ripped Lily from my arms and threw her violently over the railing. Her crying stopped instantly. Driven mad, I lunged forward and bit his arm with everything I had. He roared in pain and hacked down on me twice with his blade. My body went limp. I felt my life force rushing out of me. The wooden stairs became slick and red. My small, frail body slipped right through the open gap between the steps. The man reached down to grab me, but I was out of reach. Seeing that I was bleeding out and surely a goner, he turned and walked back downstairs. The horrors that followed were things I only learned from police reports after I was rescued. They stayed in our cabin for three days and three nights. Jessica was murdered, her unborn baby brutally carved from her womb. Grace didn't have a single inch of unmarred skin left. She was tortured to death. Mom suffered the cruelest fate. She returned on the third day, walking right into the house, only to have her throat slit the moment she stepped through the door. 4 Under the bright morning sun, my body broke into a violent chill. I shook so hard I couldn't form words. The memories brought an agonizing, soul-crushing pain, but now was not the time for tears. I had been reborn. I would not let this tragedy happen again. I slammed the heavy yard gate shut, throwing the iron bolt into place. Then I dashed into the house, grabbed the old wall-mounted landline, and dialed the local automated ringback code followed by our home number. The moment I slammed the receiver down, the phone began to ring. In the past, I used this trick all the time to prank Dad. I picked it up, pretended to talk to someone for a few seconds, and then sprinted back to the living room. "Dad! Quick, get everyone inside! The Ranger Headquarters just called—they said three armed killers escaped into the mountains, and they're heading right for us!" This was the only way to make them listen. If a nine-year-old girl tried to explain reincarnation, no one would believe me. I would waste the precious ten minutes just trying to explain the impossible. Hearing that armed killers were loose in the mountains, Dad instantly went on high alert. Something like this had actually happened a few years back. Tommy didn't take it seriously, laughing it off. "Three of 'em? I'll bash their skulls in with my crutch!" "Get inside, you idiot. You talk too much," Jessica snapped. Knowing he was in the wrong—since the family had forbidden him from riding that dirt bike in the first place—Tommy didn't dare argue. He meekly followed her inside. Grandpa and Grandma were hard of hearing. Sensing that explaining would take too long, Dad and Ethan grabbed them by their arms and practically carried them into the house, telling them a massive storm was rolling in. Grandpa looked up at the crystal-clear sky, muttering under his breath, refusing to move. Dad was incredibly strong. He physically hoisted Grandpa and his heavy bundle of rope right through the doorway. With a sharp whistle from Dad, two large golden hounds bounded over the low wall, tails wagging as they rushed into the house. One was still missing, probably wandered too far off, and there was no time to search for him now. Mountain dogs were free-roaming creatures; they'd run wild and sometimes disappear into the woods for two or three days. In my past life, they came back too late. They found their family slaughtered, went completely feral with rage, bit two of the killers, but were ultimately hacked to death. Yet, it was because of their attack that the three men were slowed down enough to be captured by the state police. Seeing that all the people and dogs were inside, I rushed over, closed the heavy oak door, and threw the deadbolt. Dad held the landline receiver, his brow furrowed deep as he looked at me. The line was dead. Absolutely no signal. I remembered the case files from my previous life. By this time, they had already cut the external telephone wires. "Did they cut the lines?" I prompted, keeping my voice urgent. Having been a forest ranger for so many years, Dad didn't deal with humans often, but he dealt with dangerous beasts daily. He possessed a sharp survival instinct. He looked at Tommy decisively. "Go put up the heavy window shutters. Now." By then, Grace realized something was wrong. She hurried down from the second floor, staring at us blankly. "Let's go lock the upstairs windows," I told her. Grace dragged her feet, reluctant as usual, but I squeezed past her and ran up the stairs. With Dad downstairs, the first floor would be tightly secured. I wasn't worried about that. 4 This house was built of heavy stone. Originally, it had only been a single-story cabin. But as Dad's generation expanded the family, he added two more floors on top. Our family had been forest rangers since Grandpa's time. The legacy was supposed to pass to my oldest brother, David, but he worked hard, went to college, and flew out of the mountains. He was never going to come back to this wilderness. Tommy had also talked about finding a job in the city, refusing to be cooped up in a mountain valley. Dad had rushed to marry Jessica into the family just to anchor him down. Back when Grandpa was a ranger, the forests were dense, teeming with all kinds of predators. Grizzly bears would bang on the doors in the dead of night. Therefore, the doors and windows on the first floor were heavily reinforced. With the six solid wooden shutters locked down, it became a veritable fortress. I had zero worries about the ground floor. The second floor, however, was a different story. It was built haphazardly. By Dad's time, logging had cleared much of the forest, and wild animals dwindled. You could barely spot a timber wolf, let alone a grizzly. The second floor also had stone walls, but it featured four large glass windows—two facing south, two facing north. Though they were old-fashioned double-hung wooden windows, smashing through the glass would be effortless. Worse, they lacked heavy shutters. This was the weakest link in the entire house. The third floor was just an attic for storage. It had no windows, only a small hatch leading to the roof, which we used for drying wild mushrooms and harvested herbs. Jessica and Grace had already closed the four windows. Out of sheer anxiety, Jessica's face was flushed, and she kept saying her heart was hammering against her ribs. I quickly guided her to a chair. This was no joke; shocking a heavily pregnant woman could trigger an emergency. "Are we safe now? I'm going back to my book," Grace said testily. Her words jolted me. I looked in her direction, and my heart dropped. I screamed, "Oh no!" 5 Grace was standing right in the middle of the second floor, where a recessed open-air balcony sat, originally built for hanging laundry in the winter. There was supposed to be a heavy door separating the balcony from the interior rooms, but the hinges had snapped. Dad had taken the door down to repair it and hadn't reinstalled it yet. Wasn't this giving them a direct highway inside? My gaze darted to the wooden extension ladder resting against the outside wall in the courtyard. A wave of despair washed over me. Even without their brute strength to climb up, the ladder was practically set up for them! Who else could we blame? "Dad! Ethan! Get up here, now!" I roared. Dad and Ethan came bounding up the stairs. "Quick, we need to block this opening!" By now, my expression was grim and deadly serious, entirely uncharacteristic of a nine-year-old girl. Dad looked startled. He was a simple, honest woodsman, never one to make big decisions. He was used to being ordered around by Mom. Being yelled at by his little daughter left him dazed, and he instinctively followed my orders. There was a massive, old-fashioned solid oak wardrobe in the hallway, incredibly heavy. I called Dad and Ethan over to push it. The three of us exerted every ounce of strength we had, but the wardrobe barely budged an inch. "Sweetie, let's... let's try something else..." Dad gasped, wiping sweat from his brow as he straightened his back. Bam! Bam! Bam! The front door rattled violently under a heavy knock. "They're here! Hurry!" I leaped toward the wardrobe, tearing open the doors and hurling the heavy winter coats and blankets onto the floor. Lightened, the wardrobe scraped loudly across the floorboards, leaving deep grooves as we forced it to block the gap. The knocking grew deafening. Just as the wardrobe was about to shut out the final sliver of light from the balcony, I saw Grandma, waddling on her small feet, hurrying toward the front door downstairs. She muttered, "Where did everyone go? Why isn't anyone answering the door?" 6 My brain felt like it was about to explode. I flew down the stairs with lightning speed. Just as Grandma's hand touched the deadbolt, I threw my arms around her waist and dragged her back with everything I had. Though Ethan didn't fully comprehend what was happening, he realized one thing: listening to me was the only way to survive. He rushed over to help pull her away. Fortunately, the knocking outside was so loud it drowned out our frantic scuffling in the entryway. The moment we dragged Grandma into the inner living room and locked the connecting door, a heavy thud echoed from the courtyard. Someone had jumped over the perimeter fence. Our two golden hounds stood up instantly, low, menacing growls vibrating in their throats. Dad's eyes turned lethal. Compared to human strangers, he trusted his dogs. The hounds knew exactly who was good and who was evil. He raised a hand, signaling everyone to be silent. The dogs obediently shut their mouths. "You're useless!" I mouthed fiercely at Tommy, blaming him for not guarding the door and letting Grandma wander out. Tommy was terrified out of his wits and didn't dare talk back. Afraid that Grandma and Grandpa might cause another accident, I directed Dad and Ethan to drag the heavy oak dining table over to barricade the front door. The table was made of a solid slab of timber, nearly four inches thick. Since the front door opened inward, it would be impossible for them to break through. The first-floor windows were completely secure. I told Ethan and Tommy to keep a strict eye on Grandparents, then I followed Dad back up to the second floor. Grace was scared to death now, clutching baby Lily tightly as she sat beside Jessica, not daring to breathe loudly. "Anyone home?" a man's voice boomed from the courtyard. "We're just passing through! Looking to get some water!" 7 Dad and I crouched beneath the second-floor window sill, peering down into the yard. Three men had entered the enclosure. They wore matching navy-blue utility jumpsuits. Stenciled across the backs in large bold letters was: PACIFIC POWER. Dad frowned, looking at me with deep suspicion. There was a wind farm on the adjacent ridge, and utility workers often came up for maintenance. Could they have just taken a wrong turn? "Dad, I really got that call. They are killers," I whispered urgently. "But aren't they from the electric company? Could the station have made a mistake?" Dad muttered, still hesitant. "Is anybody there? Just need some water!" the man shouted again. We held our breath, watching their every move. Seeing no response after a few shouts, the men sat down on our porch steps and took off their hard hats. One was tall and gangly, one was short and stocky, and the third wore wire-rimmed glasses. They looked exactly like ordinary blue-collar workers. It was impossible to connect them to vicious murderers. Dad’s brow furrowed even deeper. "Hey Marcus, looks like nobody's home. Maybe we should hit the trail," the tall one said. The short, stocky man—Marcus—ignored him. He walked over to our chicken coop, bending down to peer inside. "Clint, bring the bag over here. There are fresh eggs. Take them." Marcus reached in and pulled out a handful of eggs, covered in feathers and dirt. Clint, the man with glasses, brought a canvas sack over, a look of pure disgust on his face. He clearly didn't look like a country boy. "Hey, there's smoked ham and dried corn hanging under the eaves. Should we grab 'em?" The tall, thin man stood on his tiptoes, reaching up. "Garrett, find another sack. We're heading deep into the wilderness; we need to hoard all the food we can." The tall one was Garrett. In truth, I knew exactly who they were. Twenty years later, when the case files were unsealed in my previous life, their names and faces had been branded into my very bones. Marcus Vance had served five years for violent assault. In prison, he met Garrett Boyd, who was doing time for attempted armed robbery. Clint Brady was Garrett's brother-in-law. Not long after Marcus was paroled, Garrett invited him to a bar, where they got into a brutal brawl. They severely injured two people and killed another before fleeing into these mountains. Seeing them steal our food, Dad finally started to believe me. These were definitely not honest workers. I prayed silently, Just take the food and leave! Go deep into the woods and never come back! As if answering my prayers, they stuffed their sacks full of our provisions, opened the main gate, and strolled out arrogantly. I let out a long breath, my legs turning to jelly as I collapsed onto the floor. "Aunt Chloe, look!" Grace cried out, her voice trembling. I spun around, and my heart stopped.
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