_My Grandpa left me a Ranch in TEXAS...It came with 9 RULES TO FOLLOW__ Creepypasta

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:05):
The eviction notice stared back at me from the kitchen
table like a death sentence. Thirty days that's all I
had left before I'd be sleeping in my Honda Civic,
assuming they didn't repossess that too. I pushed aside the
stack of unpaid bills and reached for my lukewarm coffee,
the bitter taste matching my mood perfectly. Three months unemployed,

(00:27):
three months of rejection emails, ghost interviews, and watching my
savings disappear into the void of Dallas rent and utilities.
My engineering degree might as well have been toilet paper
for all the good it was doing me now. The
knock at my apartment door made me jump. I wasn't
expecting anyone. Hell, I'd been avoiding everyone since the unemployment

(00:48):
ran out. Through the peephole, I saw a woman in
a crisp business suit holding a Manila envelope. Mister Morrison,
I'm Sarah Henderson from Henderson and Associates Law firm. I
have some documents that require your signature. I opened the door,
confusion replacing my mourning dread. I think you have the

(01:09):
wrong guy. I can't afford a lawyer. She smiled professionally.
This concerns an inheritance. Mister Morrison, may I come in inheritance?
The word felt foreign in my mouth. My parents had
died in a car accident when I was twelve, leaving
me with nothing but debt and a foster care shuffle.

(01:32):
My grandmother on my mother's side had passed when I
was in college, but she'd had nothing to leave. I'm sorry,
but there's been a mistake. I don't have any wealthy relatives.
Your grandfather, Thomas Morrison, passed away six weeks ago in
Cedar Hollow, Texas. You're his sole heir. The name hit
me like a physical blow. Thomas Morrison my father's father,

(01:54):
the man who'd never acknowledged my existence after my parents died.
I'd sent him a letter once when I was sixteen,
reaching out to my only living relative. He'd never responded.
I stepped back, letting her enter my cramped apartment. She
placed the envelope on my kitchen table, right next to
the eviction notice. Mister Morrison, your grandfather was very specific

(02:17):
about the terms. The ranch is yours free and clear,
but there are conditions outlined in his personal letter ranch.
The word conjured images of vast Texas landscapes, cattle, and
a life so far removed from my concrete existence that
it felt like fantasy. How much land are we talking about?

(02:38):
Four hundred acres cattle operation. The property taxes are current,
and there's a small savings account to cover immediate expenses.
She paused, studying my face. He also left specific instructions
about your transition to rural life. I signed the papers
in a daze, my signature shaky with disbelief. After she left,

(03:03):
I sat staring at the inheritance documents. Thomas Morrison Ranch,
Cedar Hollow, Texas, population three hundred forty according to the
tiny print on the deed, four hundred acres my own land.
No landlord, no eviction notices, no neighbours complaining about noise
through paper thin walls. It was like winning the lottery,

(03:25):
except the benefactor was a ghost from my past who'd
ignored me for fifteen years. I packed everything I owned
into two Duffel bags in a cardboard box. It didn't
take long. My furniture was garage sale quality, and I'd
already sold my TV and gaming console to pay for groceries.
The Honda's gas tank was nearly empty, but I had
enough for the drive to Cedar Hollow. The drive south

(03:47):
on I thirty five felt like traveling backward through time.
Dallas's urban sprawl gradually gave way to smaller towns than
farm land, than endless stretches of Texas countryside that seemed
to swallow the horizon. My phone's GPS signal flickered in
and out as I left the interstate for increasingly rural highways.
Four hours into the drive, I passed a sun bleached

(04:10):
sign Cedar Hollow, Pop. Three hundred forty, founded eighteen ninety two.
The town consisted of a single main street lined with
brick buildings that looked like they'd been frozen in the
nineteen fifties, a diner with a hand painted sign, a
hardware store, a veterinary clinic, and a small church with

(04:32):
a white steeple. I drove through town in less than
two minutes. The ranch sat three miles outside town, marked
by a weathered wooden sign reading Morrison Ranch, established nineteen
thirty four. A dirt road wound through mesquite trees toward
a cluster of buildings, a two story farmhouse, a red barn,

(04:53):
and several outbuildings. Cattle dotted the pastures, their coats gleaming
in the afternoon sun. I parked side the house and
stepped out into the oppressive Texas heat. The silence was overwhelming,
no traffic, no sirens, no city sounds, just the distant
lowing of cattle and the whisper of wind through dry grass.
The front door was unlocked, the key hanging from a

(05:15):
hook beside the frame. Inside the house was sparse but functional,
hardwood floors, simple furniture, and family photos i'd never seen before.
My grandfather at various ages, always wearing the same serious expression.
A few pictures of my father as a young man
before I was born. On the kitchen table, I found
a Manila envelope with my name written in careful script.

(05:39):
Inside was a handwritten letter on yellowed paper. Rick. If
you're reading this, I'm dead and you've inherited more than
just land. The ranch comes with responsibilities you won't understand yet.
Follow these rules exactly, or you'll end up like the
others who didn't listen. Don't think I'm just some paranoid
old man. Every rule has a reason paid for in blood.

(06:00):
One never go outside between two am and four am.
Stay inside. Lock the doors. Two count the cattle every
morning and evening. If any are missing, report it to
Sheriff Martinez immediately. Three Never eat meat that's been left
out overnight, no matter how fresh it looks. Four. Salt

(06:20):
the ground in circles around the house and barn every
new moon. Five. If you hear scratching on the walls
at night, don't investigate. It will pass. Six. Never open
the door after dark unless the visitor can recite the
Lord's prayer word for word. Seven. If you see lights

(06:41):
in the pasture at night, don't follow them. Eight keep
a loaded shotgun by the front door. Rock salt shells,
not lead. Nine Never cut down the old oak tree
in the east pasture. It's sacred. I know how this sounds.
You'll think I'm crazy, but this land has been in

(07:02):
our family for almost a century because we learned to
respect what was here before us. The people in town
will help you if you let them. Trust Maria Santos
and her daughter Elena. Sheriff Martinez knows the truth. Don't
be too proud to listen. Thomas. I read the letter twice,

(07:22):
then set it aside with a snort. Nine rules for
living on a ranch, Each one stranger than the last rock, salt, shells,
sacred trees. It read like the ravings of a lonely
old man who'd spent too many years isolated in the
middle of nowhere. Still, I found the shotgun exactly where
he'd said it would be, leaning against the wall beside

(07:45):
the front door. The shells in the box beside it
were indeed rock salt, not lead. Whatever my grandfather's mental
state had been, he'd been consistent in his delusions. I
spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the property. The
barn was well maintained, filled with hay bales and ranch equipment.
I didn't recognize. The cattle seemed healthy enough, though they

(08:09):
kept their distance from me. I counted forty three head
in the main pasture, making a mental note to keep track,
as the letter suggested, not because I believed in supernatural threats,
but because missing cattle meant lost money. As evening approached,
I made myself a simple dinner from canned goods i'd
found in the pantry. The isolation was already getting to me.

(08:31):
In Dallas, I'd been surrounded by the constant hum of
urban life. Here, every sound seemed amplified. The settling of
the old house, the distant calls of coyotes, the rustle
of wind through the mesquite trees. Around midnight, I was
lying in bed when I heard it, a soft scratching
sound coming from the exterior wall. My first thought was

(08:54):
mice or some other small animal, but the sound was
too deliberate, too rhythmic. Scratch scratch, scratch, pause, scratch, scratch pause.
Rule number five flashed through my mind. If you hear
scratching on the walls at night, don't investigate. It will pass.
I shook my head. The old man's paranoia was already

(09:14):
getting to me. It was probably just a branch scraping
against the siding in the wind, but when I looked
out the window, the night was perfectly still. The scratching
continued for nearly an hour before finally stopping. I lay
awake until dawn, telling myself it was just my imagination
working over time in an unfamiliar place. The next morning,

(09:36):
I walked around the house looking for evidence of whatever
had made the noise. I found nothing. No scratches on
the siding, no branches close enough to touch the walls,
no animal tracks in the dust. But when I counted
the cattle, I only found forty two head. My first
instinct was to search the property, but something in my
grandfather's letter nagged at me. If any are missing, reported

(10:00):
to Sheriff Martinez immediately. It seemed like an overreaction for
one missing cow, but I was in unfamiliar territory. Maybe
there were rustlers in the area or dangerous predators. I
drove into Cedar Hollow, parking outside the diner with the
hand painted sign reading Maria's place. Inside, the smell of

(10:21):
bacon and coffee filled the air. A middle aged Hispanic
woman with graying hair and kind eyes approached my table.
You must be Rick Morrison, she said, setting down a
cup of coffee without being asked. I'm Maria Santos. Your
grandfather mentioned you might come around someday. Word travels fast

(10:42):
in a small town, faster than you'd think. How are
you settling in out there? Well enough, I suppose, though
I seemed to have lost a cow already. Her expression shifted,
becoming more serious. Lost. How I had forty three yesterday
forty to this morning? Is that normal around here? Maria

(11:03):
glanced around the diner, then leaned closer. Sheriff Martinez is
having breakfast in the back booth. You should talk to him.
Sheriff Martinez was a lean man in his fifties with
weathered skin and sharp eyes. When Maria introduced us, he
invited me to sit missing cattle. Huh, how long you've
been at the ranch? Just got here yesterday, and you're

(11:27):
following your grandfather's instructions. The way he said it made
me pause. You mean the letter with all those rules.
Thomas was a good man, practical. His rules weren't suggestions.
Martinez pulled out a small notebook. Tell me exactly when
you noticed the cow was missing. I described my morning count,

(11:50):
feeling increasingly foolish. One missing cow shouldn't warrant this level
of attention, but Martinez took notes like I was reporting
a serious crime. You staying out there alone for now?
Why might want to consider having someone check on you,
at least until you get used to the local customs.

(12:13):
There was that phrase again, local customs, as if following
a dead man's paranoid rules was somehow normal. In Cedar Hollow,
after breakfast, I drove to the veterinary clinic I'd noticed
the day before. The sign read Cedar Hollow Veterinary Services.
Doctor Elena Santos d VM Santos, same last name as Maria.

(12:38):
I pushed through the front door, setting off a small bell.
The waiting room was empty except for a young woman
behind the reception desk. She looked up from her paperwork,
and I felt my breath catch. She was beautiful in
an understated way, dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail,
intelligent brown eyes, and the kind of natural confidence that

(12:59):
came from knowing it exactly who you were. When she smiled,
I forgot why i'd come. You must be Rick Morrison.
Mom called and said you might stop by Elena Santos.
I'm guessing guilty as charged. Mom said, you're having some
trouble with your live stock. I explained about the missing cow,

(13:19):
feeling increasingly self conscious under her direct gaze. She listened
without interruption, occasionally making notes on a pad. Has anything
else seemed unusual since you arrived, besides inheriting a ranch
from a grandfather i'd never met, Not really well. There
was some scratching on the walls last night, but I

(13:41):
figure it was just an animal. Something flickered across her face,
concern maybe, or recognition. What kind of scratching rhythmic, deliberate,
But when I looked outside this morning, I couldn't find
any evidence of what might have caused it. Elena set

(14:02):
down her pen and studied me carefully. Rick. I'm going
to give you some advice, and I need you to
listen carefully. Your grandfather's letter, follow every word of it.
Don't dismiss the rules as the ramblings of an old man,
and don't try to be a hero. What's that supposed
to mean. It means this place has its own way

(14:24):
of doing things, traditions that might seem strange to someone
from the city, but those traditions exist for good reasons.
Before I could ask what she meant, the bell chimed
again and an elderly man entered. Elena's demeanor shifted back
to professional pleasantness. Rick, this is doc Hernandez. He helps out

(14:45):
with the larger animals when I need an extra pair
of hands. Doc Hernandez was a small man with silver
hair and gentle eyes. When Elena introduced me, his face
lit up with recognition. Thomas Morrison's grandson. He talked to
you sometimes, said you were smart, stubborn like him. He paused,
studying my face. You look like your father did at

(15:08):
that age. You knew my father before he left for
the big city. Yes, good man, shame what happened? His
expression grew somber. You planning to stay at the ranch?
I'm considering it. Don't have much choice. Really, Well, if
you do decide to stick around, Remember, we take care

(15:28):
of our own here in Cedar Hollow. But that means
following the unwritten rules, not just the laws. There it
was again, rules, customs, traditions. Everyone in this town seemed
to speak in code, referring to things they expected me
to understand without explanation. I spent the next two days
settling into a routine morning and evening cattle counts, basic

(15:51):
maintenance around the property, and long hours trying to make
sense of my grandfather's records. The missing cow never turned up,
but no others disappeared eared. The scratching returned the second night,
lasting even longer than before. This time. I was tempted
to investigate, but something in Elena's warning kept me in bed.

(16:11):
The third night was quiet. On my fourth day, I
made a crucial mistake. I'd found a package of steaks
in the refrigerator, apparently left by my grandfather before his death.
They looked fresh enough, so I grilled one for dinner
and left the rest on the counter, planning to cook
them the next day. I woke up violently ill, stomach

(16:32):
cramps that doubled me over, fever and nausea that left
me wretching into the toilet for hours. It wasn't until
I was recovering the next morning that I remembered Rule three.
Never eat meat that's been left out overnight, no matter
how fresh it looks. As I sat on the bathroom floor,
weak and dehydrated, I found myself thinking about my grandfather's

(16:56):
letter with new respect. Maybe the rules weren't just paranoid rambles.
Maybe there was something about this place, the climate, the
local bacteria, the wild life that required precautions a city
dweller wouldn't understand. That afternoon, feeling well enough to venture outside,
I decided to walk the eastern boundary of the property.

(17:17):
I wanted to see this supposedly sacred oak tree my
grandfather had mentioned. I found it about half a mile
from the house, standing alone in the middle of a
small clearing. It was enormous, easily one hundred years old,
with a trunk thick enough that three people couldn't wrap
their arms around it. But what struck me most was
the way the other vegetation grew around it. Nothing else

(17:39):
thrived in its immediate vicinity, as if the tree demanded
its own space. As I circled the ancient oak, I
noticed something odd in the dirt at its base. Tracks,
large ones with distinct claw marks that pressed deep into
the earth. They were bigger than any dog print I'd
ever seen, longer than a human hand, and they seemed

(18:01):
to circle the tree like some kind of ritual had
taken place there. I knelt down for a closer look,
my skin prickling with unease. The tracks were fresh, no
more than a day or two old. Whatever had made
them was large, powerful, and unlike anything I could identify.
For the first time since arriving at the ranch, I

(18:22):
felt genuine fear, Not the rational concern of a city
dweller adjusting to rural life, but something deeper and more primitive,
the kind of fear that made ancient humans huddle around
fires and avoid the dark. As I stood up, brushing
dirt from my knees, I realized my grandfather's rules were
starting to make a terrible kind of sense. The tracks

(18:44):
around the oak tree haunted my dreams for the next
two nights. Day six dawned gray and overcast, with heavy clouds,
promising rain that never came. I'd been at the ranch
almost a week now, and the initial novelty was wearing off,
replaced by a growing unease I couldn't shake. After my
morning cattle count forty two head still one missing, I

(19:07):
decided to investigate those tracks more thoroughly. I grabbed a
camera and measuring tape from my grandfather's tool collection and
drove the ATV out to the oak tree in daylight.
With proper equipment, maybe I could make sense of what
I'd found. The tracks were even more disturbing than I remembered.
Using the measuring tape, I confirmed they were nearly eight

(19:28):
inches long, with claw marks that pressed three inches deep
into the hard packed earth. No domestic animal made tracks
like these, no wild animal I knew of either. I
photographed everything from multiple angles, then followed the trail away
from the tree. The tracks led toward the ranch house,
stopping about fifty yards from the property line. It was

(19:50):
as if whatever made them had been testing boundaries, seeing
how close it could get. Back at the house, I
spread the photos across the kitchen table, next to my
grandfather's letter. Rule four jumped out at me. Salt the
ground in circles around the house and barn every new moon.
I dismissed it as superstition, but looking at those tracks,

(20:12):
I wondered if there was something to it after all. Still,
salting the ground seemed ridiculous. What was I supposed to
tell people that I was following my dead grandfather's paranoid instructions.
I had enough credibility issues as the city boy who'd
inherited a ranch he knew nothing about. The sound of
a truck engine interrupted my brooding. Through the window, I

(20:35):
saw Elena's white veterinary pickup pulling into the yard. My
pulse quickened as I watched her step out, her dark
hair catching the morning light. Morning Rick she called, approaching
the house with a professional stride. Thought I'd check on you.
Mom mentioned you've been having some adjustment issues. I invited her,

(20:56):
in grateful for the company, just trying to figure out
ranch life. It's more complicated than I expected. Elena's gaze
fell on the photographs scattered across the table. Her expression changed,
immediately becoming serious and focused. She picked up one of
the clearer shots, studying it intently. Where did you find these?

(21:18):
By the old oak tree in the east pasture yesterday afternoon?
Do you recognize what made them? She set the photo
down carefully, her professional composure slipping slightly. Rick, I need
you to listen to me very carefully. These tracks aren't
from any animal that should be in this area. They're
not from any animal that should exist period. What do

(21:40):
you mean? I mean you need to start taking your
grandfather's letter seriously, all of it, especially the parts that
seem most ridiculous. She pointed to Rule four. When's the
next new moon? I checked my phone's weather app three days. Good.
That gives us time to prepare. Elena moved to the window,

(22:03):
scanning the property with practiced eyes. Have you been following
the other rules? I felt heat rise in my cheeks
most of them. I had some trouble with Rule three
a few days ago. The meat made me sick as
a dog. Food poisoning, I guess. Elena's expression softened slightly.

(22:27):
It wasn't food poisoning, Rick, That meat was contaminated, not
with bacteria, with something else. Before I could ask what
she meant, she continued, what about rule one, the two
am to four am restriction. I went outside the first night.
There was scratching on the walls and I heard things.

(22:47):
But I've stayed inside since then. Good. That's good. She
pulled out her phone and made a quick call. Mom,
it's Elena. Can you ask Pete to put together a
supply kit for Rick? The usual? He'll know what I mean.
After hanging up, she turned back to me. We're going
into town. There are people you need to meet properly,

(23:07):
and supplies you need to get. The drive to Cedar
Hollow was quiet, eleanor lost in thought while I tried
to process what she'd told me. Contaminated meat that wasn't,
bacterial contamination, tracks from animals that shouldn't exist. It sounded insane,
but the evidence was literally sitting on my kitchen table.
At the hardware store, Pete, a grizzled man in his

(23:30):
seventies with knowing eyes, was waiting with a collection of
items that would have seemed random a week ago. Bags
of rock salt, silver wire, sage bundles, and several boxes
of shotgun shells rock salt loads. Pete explained, noting my confusion,
Your grandad was particular about those said, lead just makes

(23:51):
them angry, makes what angry. Pete exchanged a look with
Elena Sun. There are things in this part of Texas
that don't show up in any wild life guide, things
that been here longer than the cattle, longer than the town.
Your grandad learned to coexist with them. That's why his
ranch thrived when others failed. You're talking about the tracks,

(24:15):
among other things. Pete loaded the supplies into Elena's truck.
Your grandad had an understanding with the local wild life.
Part of that understanding involved certain precautions, certain courtesies. At
the diner, Maria greeted us with coffee and a worried expression.

(24:36):
Elena told me about the tracks. How are you holding up,
Miho confused. Mostly everyone keeps talking in riddles, not riddles,
said a new voice. I turned to see Sheriff Martinez
approaching our table. Practical advice disguised as small talk. We've
learned to be careful about what we say, directly, careful

(24:59):
of what Martinez sat down, lowering his voice. Cedar Hollow
has been here for over a century. In all that time,
we've never had a single unsolved disappearance, never had livestock
predation we couldn't account for, never had the kind of
problems that plague other rural communities. You know why I

(25:19):
shook my head Because we learned the rules. We learned
what works and what doesn't. We learned that some things
are better contained than confronted. Over lunch, they told me more.
Doc Hernandez joined us, adding details that painted a picture
I was still reluctant to accept. Cedar Hollow sat on

(25:40):
a boundary of sorts, a place where something ancient and
hungry had been trapped or contained generations ago. The town's
founders had learned to manage the threat, rather than eliminate it.
Eliminated how, I asked, You can't, Martinez said, simply, It's
part of the land, now, part of the ecosystem. All

(26:02):
we can do is maintain the barriers, follow the protocols,
and hope it stays contained. What exactly are we talking about?
The table fell silent. Finally, doc Hernandez spoke in the
old language. They called it wendigo. But names have power,
and some things are better left unnamed in casual conversation.

(26:25):
The word hit me like cold water. I'd heard of
wendigoes Native American folklore about cannibalistic creatures born from desperation
and hunger. But folklore was one thing. Sitting in a
small town diner discussing them as real threats was another.
You're serious, dead serious, Martinez confirmed. Your grandfather was part

(26:46):
of the containment network. Now that responsibility falls to you.
That evening, Elena helped me salt the ground around the
house and barn. We worked in silence, creating precise circles
with the rocks while the sun set behind the mesquite trees.
The ritual felt ancient and important, even if I didn't
fully understand it. The salt creates a barrier, Elena explained

(27:11):
as we finished, not physical, spiritual. It marks territory, sets boundaries,
shows respect, respect for what, for something that was here
first and isn't going anywhere. Two days later, on day nine,
everything changed. I was settling in for the evening, reading
through some of my grandfather's ranch records when I heard

(27:33):
a knock at the front door. It was late, nearly
eleven o'clock and I wasn't expecting anyone. Hello, called a
voice from outside. I'm sorry to bother you so late,
but I've got an injured horse. Down the road. Could
you help me. I've got a truck, but I need
another pair of hands. The voice sounded normal enough, a

(27:53):
middle aged man with a slight Texas drawl, the kind
of neighbor who might reasonably ask for help with an emergency.
But Rule six flashed through my mind. Never open the
door after dark unless the visitor can recite the Lord's
prayer word for word. Sure, I called, back, my hand
on the door handle. Just give me a second, I paused,

(28:14):
remembering Elena's warnings about taking the rules seriously. It seemed paranoid.
But what could it hurt before I open up? Could
you recite the Lord's prayer? My grandfather was real religious,
and he made me promise to ask any one who
visits after dark. Silence, complete, total silence that stretched for
nearly thirty seconds. Then what the Lord's prayer? Our father,

(28:41):
who art in heaven? You know it right? Another long pause.
When the voice came again, it was different, deeper, with
an odd resonance that made my skin crawl. Let me in,
just say the prayer first, Let me in. The voice
was wrong, now, unmistakably wrong, too deep, with harmonic overtones

(29:05):
that no human throat could produce. I backed away from
the door, my heart hammering. Something heavy slammed against the door,
rattling the frame. I lunged for my grandfather's shotgun, fumbling
with the rock salt shells. As another impact shook the house.
Through the window, I caught a glimpse of movement, a
shape too tall and wrong to be human, moving with

(29:28):
predatory grace around the house. The scratching started, then, the
same rhythmic sound i'd heard my first night, but louder
and more aggressive. I called Elena, my hands shaking as
I dialed Rick, what's wrong. Something's at the house. It
tried to get me to open the door, but when

(29:49):
I asked for the prayer, stay inside. Lock every door
and window. Don't go near the windows were coming. The
assault on the house continued for hours, scratching, impacts against
the walls, and sounds that belonged in nightmares. Through the curtains,
I glimpsed shadows moving in impossible ways, shapes that hurt

(30:11):
to look at directly. Dawn couldn't come fast enough. As
the first rays of sunlight touched the eastern pasture, the
sounds stopped. The sudden silence was almost worse than the
noise had been. I sat in the living room, shot
gun across my knees, waiting. Three trucks arrived at sunrise

(30:32):
Sheriff Martinez, Elena, and Maria, along with Father Mackenzie from
the local church. They moved with practiced deficiency, checking the
property perimeter before approaching the house. The evidence was unmistakable.
Deep scratches scored the wooden siding, and strange tracks circled
the house, the same tracks I'd found by the oak tree.

(30:55):
You did good, Martinez said. Examining the front door following
rules six probably saved your life. What was it? Hungry,
Elena said, simply, and testing boundaries inside. Father Mackenzie performed
what he called a cleansing, but the prayers he used
were older than any Catholic ritual. I knew. When he finished,

(31:19):
he placed his hand on my shoulder. You're part of
the community now, son, really part of it. That thing
wouldn't have tested you otherwise. Sheriff Martinez spread a map
across my kitchen table, marking locations with red pins. This
is every ranch in the area. Your grandfather's place anchors

(31:39):
the eastern boundary of our containment zone. That makes you
a critical part of our defensive network. Defensive against what exactly?
Elena sat across from me. Her expression grave, something that's
been contained here for generations, something that feeds on isolation, fear,
and desperation. Your grandfather helped keep it contained. Now that

(32:03):
job falls to you. Why here? Why this place? Old
wounds in the land, Doc Hernandez said, places where the
boundary between worlds is thin. Your ancestors chose this spot
for the ranch because the land was cheap, nobody else
wanted it. They learned why the hard way, but they

(32:24):
also learned how to survive. Martinez folded the map. The
containment network depends on co operation, every ranch owner, every
family in town. We all play a part. Your grandfather
was planning to teach you gradually, but his death accelerated
the time line. What if I just left, sold the
place and went back to Dallas. The question hung in

(32:47):
the air, like a stone dropped in still water. You
could try, Elena said, finally, but it knows you now,
it's tested you marked you. Distance might not be enough. Besides,
Maria added gently, where would you go? You said yourself,
you had nothing left in Dallas. She was right. The

(33:08):
ranch wasn't just inheritance. It was refuge, my only refuge.
So what do I do you learn? Martinez said, You
follow the rules, you become part of the network, and
you help us keep the rest of the world safe
from something it's not ready to understand. That afternoon, Eleena

(33:29):
stayed to help me repair the damage and reinforce the
house's defenses. As we worked, I found myself studying her profile,
noting the competent way she handled both veterinary equipment and
supernatural countermeasures. How long have you known, i asked, as
we installed silver wire along the window frames. All my

(33:49):
life I grew up here. Remember, this is just part
of living in Cedar Hollow. Doesn't it bother you? She
paused in her work, considering the question, would it bother
you to know there were bears in the woods or
poisonous snakes in the grass? This is just another natural
hazard to manage. Bears and snakes don't pretend to be

(34:11):
injured neighbors. No, but they're still dangerous if you don't
respect them. Elena met my eyes. The difference is this
particular predator is intelligent. It adapts, it learns, it tests boundaries.
That's why the rules exist. They're not superstition. Their survival
protocols developed over generations. As evening approached, I realized I

(34:35):
felt safer with Elena there, not just because of her
knowledge of local supernatural threats, but because she represented connection
to the community that was slowly accepting me. Will you
stay tonight, I asked as we finished the repairs, planning
on it at least until we're sure last night's visit
was just testing and not the start of something bigger.

(34:58):
That night, as Elena dozed in the living room chair
with her own shotgun across her lap, I lay in
bed thinking about the choice ahead of me. I could
continue fighting this new reality, continue viewing it as elaborate
small town madness. Or I could accept that some truths
were stranger than anything I'd learned in engineering school. The

(35:19):
tracks by the oak tree were real. The thing that
had tried to trick me into opening the door was real.
The coordinated community response was real. Cedar Hollow wasn't just
a town. It was a fortress. And I was no
longer just a desperate inheritor looking for refuge. I was
a guardian, whether I wanted to be or not. The

(35:40):
morning after the false neighbor incident. Elena and I stood
in my kitchen, drinking coffee and surveying the damage to
the house. Deep scratches marred the wooden siding, and the
silver wire we'd installed was twisted and torn in several places.
It's getting bolder, Elena said, running her fingers along one
of the deeper gouges. Ually it tests new arrivals more subtly.

(36:03):
What's different about me? Maybe nothing, or maybe it's just
hungrier this season, she paused, studying my face. Rick, I
need to ask you something, and I want you to
be completely honest. Have you been having dreams? The question
caught me off guard. Dreams, vivid ones about the ranch,

(36:26):
about walking through the pastures at night. Sometimes there are lights.
My coffee cup froze halfway to my lips. I had
been having dreams, strange, compelling dreams where I found myself
walking through moonlit fields toward flickering lights in the distance.
In the dreams, the lights seemed to call to me,
promising answers to questions. I didn't know how to ask.

(36:49):
How did you know? Elena's expression grew grave, Because that's
how it starts. The dreams are invitations it's trying to
lure you out during the dangerous hours. Over the next day,
Elena taught me more about the practical aspects of living
with supernatural threats. We repaired the silver wire, reinforced the

(37:11):
salt circles, and she showed me how to recognize the
signs of increased creature activity. See how the cattle clustered
together in the center of the pasture, she pointed out
during our evening count When they avoid the fence lines,
it means something's been testing the boundaries. Day eleven brought
the first real test of my resolve. The dreams had

(37:32):
been getting stronger, more vivid, and when I woke that morning,
I could swear I smelled sage and dry grass from
my dream walk. Elena had returned to her own place
the previous evening, confident that the immediate threat had passed.
I was wrong to let her go. Around ten PM,
I was reading through more of my grandfather's journals when

(37:54):
I saw them lights flickering in the east pasture near
the Sacred Oak tree. They dan and swayed like fireflies,
but larger, more purposeful, beautiful in a way that made
my chest tight with longing. Rule seven echoed in my mind.
If you see lights in the pasture at night, don't

(38:15):
follow them. But the lights were so close to the
oak tree. And what if something was wrong, What if
cattle were in distress. I'd learned enough about ranching to
know that livestock emergencies couldn't wait for dawn. I grabbed
a flashlight and stepped outside. The night air was cool
and still, carrying sense of sage and something else, something

(38:37):
sweet and cloying that made my mouth water despite myself.
The lights seemed closer, now, just beyond the fence line,
pulsing with an almost musical rhythm. I walked toward them,
each step feeling natural and necessary. The fence, the salt circles,
the boundaries Elena had shown me, they all seemed arbitrary,

(38:58):
now unnecessary, barrier between me and something wonderful waiting in
the darkness. Time became fluid. I remember opening the gate,
Remember walking through tall grass that whispered against my legs.
Remember the lights growing brighter as they led me deeper
into the pasture. But the details slipped away like water,

(39:19):
leaving only the sensation of movement and the growing certainty
that I was exactly where I needed to be. The
next clear memory was dawn light filtering through oak leaves
above my head. I was lying at the base of
the sacred oak, two miles from the house, with no
memory of how I'd gotten there. My clothes were torn,

(39:40):
scratches covered my arms and face, and my boots were
caked with mud despite the dry weather. But I was alive,
and according to my phone, i'd lost nearly eight hours.
I stumbled back to the house, my body aching like
i'd run a marathon. Elena's truck was in the driveway,
and she met me at the door, with relie and

(40:00):
anger warring in her expression. Do you have any idea
how worried I was when I couldn't reach you this
morning and saw the front door standing open the lights.
I managed, collapsing into a kitchen chair. I followed the lights.
Her anger evaporated, replaced by clinical concern. Show me your arms.

(40:24):
The scratches were deeper than I'd realized, some still bleeding.
Elena cleaned and bandaged them with practiced deficiency while I
explained what I could remember. You're lucky, she said, finally.
The oak tree is sacred ground, neutral territory. It's probably
what saved you saved me from what from becoming one

(40:48):
of the missing. Elena's voice was quiet but firm. People
who follow the lights don't usually come back, rick when
they do, they're changed. She stayed with me through the day,
monitoring my condition and helping me piece together what had happened.
The time loss was complete, eight hours gone without a trace,

(41:10):
but gradually, as the day wore on, fragments returned. Images
of walking through landscape that shifted and changed when I
wasn't looking directly at it, sounds that didn't match their sources,
and always the sense of being led towards something both
terrible and wonderful. It was testing you, Elena explained as

(41:33):
she helped me to bed that evening, seeing how far
you'd go, how much control it could exert. The fact
that you ended up at the Oak Tree instead of
somewhere else suggests you retained enough awareness to seek sanctuary.
That night, she slept in the chair beside my bed,

(41:53):
her shot gun within easy reach. I woke several times
to find her watching the windows, alert and tense. The
experience had shaken her more than she wanted to admit.
The next morning brought Sheriff Martinez and Doc Hernandez for
what Elena called a wellness check. Their examination was thorough

(42:13):
testing my reflexes, checking my pupils, asking pointed questions about
my memories and mental state. Clean bill of health, Doc
Hernandez announced, Finally, but you'll need to be more careful
the lights. They're harder to resist each time you encounter them.
There'll be a next time. Oh yes, Martinez said grimly.

(42:36):
It knows you, now, really knows you. The testing phase
is over. Elena took leave from her veterinary practice to
stay with me for the next few days, claiming she
needed to monitor my recovery. But I suspected it was
more than medical concern. Keeping her close. We'd crossed some
invisible threshold during my night of lost time, moved from

(42:56):
professional cooperation to something deeper and more per arsenal. I
keep thinking about what might have happened, she admitted on
day thirteen, as we worked together to repair fence damage.
I didn't remember causing if you hadn't found the oak tree,
but I did find it this time, she paused in
her work, meeting my eyes, Rick, I need you to

(43:20):
understand something. This isn't a game or a test of courage.
People die out here, good people who thought they could
handle things on their own. Are you saying I can't.
I'm saying you don't have to. That's what the community
is for mutual protection. Nobody faces this alone. That afternoon,

(43:41):
Elena introduced me to the broader network of ranchers and
townspeople who formed Cedar Hollow's supernatural defense system. We visited
the Hendersons, whose ranch bordered mine to the south, and
the Kowalskis, whose family had been fighting the same threat
for three generations. Each stop taught me something new. Tom
Henderson showed me how to read sign in ways that

(44:03):
went beyond normal, tracking disturbances in the natural order that
indicated supernatural activity. Sarah Kowalski demonstrated proper construction of protective
barriers using materials that looked mundane but carried deeper significance.
Silver wire isn't just superstition, she explained, showing me the

(44:24):
technique for weaving blessed threads through regular fencing. It creates
resonance patterns that interfere with certain frequencies. Frequencies think of
it as spiritual. White noise makes it harder for unwanted
things to focus on what's inside the barrier. By day fifteen,
I'd learned enough to begin contributing to the community's defensive

(44:46):
efforts rather than just receiving protection. My engineering background proved
surprisingly useful. I could calculate optimal spacing for protective elements
and design barriers that looked like normal ranch infrastructure to outside.
Elena and I worked side by side, our partnership deepening
naturally through shared purpose. There were moments, hands touching as

(45:09):
we passed tools, quiet conversations during breaks. The way she
looked at me when she thought I wasn't watching that
made me realize my feelings for her went far beyond
gratitude for her protection. But it was Day sixteen that
changed everything. I woke to the sound of vehicles in
my driveway, Sheriff Martinez's truck, followed by Tom Henderson's pickup

(45:31):
and Sarah Kowalski's suv. The grim expressions on their faces
told me this wasn't a social call. Multiple incidents last night,
Martinez reported as we gathered in my kitchen, three ranches
hit simultaneously. No missing cattle, but significant property damage and
signs of probing behavior. Elena spread a map across the table,

(45:52):
marking the affected properties with red pins. Its coordinating testing
multiple weak points in our defensive perimids, testing for what
away through. Tom Henderson said, Usually it picks off isolated targets,
single ranchers who let their guard down, newcomers who don't
know the rules. But this, this is different, more organized.

(46:19):
Sarah Kowalski's phone buzzed with a text message. Her face
went pale as she read it. Another incident, the Williams Place,
just outside town. That's four properties in twelve hours. The
room fell silent. Finally, Martinez spoke, it's not hunting individuals anymore.
It's hunting the community. Elena's hand found mine under the table,

(46:43):
her grip tight with worry. Why now, what's changed? Could
be cyclical, doc Hernandez suggested when he arrived an hour later.
Some years the hungry season is worse than others. Or
dot dot dot or what he looked to directly at me.
Or it sees Rick as a threat. His grandfather was

(47:04):
one of the anchors of our defensive network. Maybe it's
trying to break the containment before Rick can fully take
on that role. The weight of responsibility settled on my shoulders.
Like a physical burden. These people, Elena Martinez, the ranchers
and townspeople who'd accepted me into their community, they were
all at risk because I'd inherited more than just land.

(47:28):
What do we do? We coordinate, Martinez said, full community response,
every ranch, every family. This ends now, one way or another.
Elena squeezed my hand together. That evening, the entire community
gathered at the church. Father Mackenzie led us in prayers

(47:48):
that sounded older than Christianity, while Pete from the hardware
store distributed specialized equipment to every family. Shotgun shells, silver wire,
blessed salt and sage bundles, the tools of a war
most of the world didn't know was being fought. Sheriff
Martinez outlined the plan. Each ranch would be defended by

(48:10):
multiple families working in shifts. Communication networks would insure rapid
response to any incident, and if the containment failed entirely,
evacuation protocols would protect the children and elderly. This isn't
about heroism, Martinez emphasized, This is about survival. We follow
the plan, we watch each other's backs, and we don't

(48:32):
take unnecessary risks. But as I looked around the room,
at the faces of people i'd come to care about.
Elena with her quiet strength, Maria with her maternal protectiveness,
Pete with his gruff wisdom. I realized something had changed
in me. These weren't just neighbors anymore. They were family,
and I'd do whatever it took to protect them. Elena

(48:54):
rode back to the ranch with me. Our conversation quiet
and serious as we discussed the defense of Paras. The
romantic tension that had been building between us felt secondary
now to the immediate threat, but it was still there,
adding urgency to every shared glance. Rick, she said, as
we pulled into the ranch driveway, whatever happens tomorrow night,

(49:16):
I want you to know. I know, I interrupted gently.
I feel it too. She smiled, the first genuine smile
I'd seen from her all day. Good because when this
is over, we're going to have a long conversation about
the future. The future, your future. Here, our future. Cedar

(49:42):
Hollow needs a veterinarian who understands both sides of the job,
natural and supernatural. I've been thinking about expanding my practice,
maybe bringing in a partner with complimentary skills engineering and
supernatural containment. Strange Combat Nation but it seems to work.

(50:03):
As we prepared the ranch for what Martinez had called
the final confrontation, I realized Elena was right. My old
life in Dallas felt like a dream, now insubstantial and distant.
This place, these people, this strange new reality of ranching
and supernatural defense, this was home. Tomorrow would bring the

(50:26):
test that would determine whether Cedar Hollow's century long containment
could hold for another generation. But tonight, with Elena beside
me and the community's collective strength at my back, I
felt ready for whatever came. The hungry season was reaching
its peak, but I was no longer the desperate, isolated

(50:47):
man who'd arrived here three weeks ago. I was part
of something larger, now, a guardian, a community member, a
man with roots in Texas soil and reasons to fight
for the future. And for the first time since inheriting
my grandfather's ranch, I wasn't afraid of what tomorrow might bring.
Dawn on Day eighteen brought no relief from the tension

(51:09):
that had gripped Cedar Hollow since the coordinated attacks began.
I woke to find Elena already up checking the silver
wire installations around the house, with methodical precision. Her movements
were efficient but tense, like a soldier preparing for battle.
How bad is it? I asked, joining her with two

(51:30):
cups of coffee. Tom Henderson lost twelve head of cattle
last night. No blood, no tracks, no signs of struggle.
They just vanished. She accepted the coffee gratefully, her hands
trembling slightly. Sarah Kowalski's barn doors were found wide open,
but her security cameras shown nothing. It's like the locks

(51:53):
open themselves. I felt a chill that had nothing to
do with the morning air. It's adapting to our defense
is faster than we expected. Martinez called an emergency meeting
for this afternoon. Were implementing the Final protocols. The final
protocols a phrase that had haunted community discussions for the

(52:14):
past week. I'd learned enough about Cedar Hollow's history to
know that these protocols had never been used in living memory.
They represented the last resort, the nuclear option of supernatural containment.
By noon, trucks were arriving at the ranch from all directions.
The entire community had mobilized. Ranchers, townspeople, even families with

(52:37):
children who'd been sent to relatives in Austin for safety.
Everyone had a role to play in what Sheriff Martinez
grimly called the Last Stand. Elena and I worked side
by side, coordinating defensive positions with the other ranch owners.
My engineering background proved invaluable as we calculated sight lines,

(52:58):
communication range, and fall back positions. For the first time
since arriving in Cedar Hollow, I felt truly useful, not
just protected, but protecting rick, Elena said, as we secured
the final perimeter markers. Whatever happens tonight, I want you
to know you've become everything I hoped you would be.

(53:22):
What do you mean, a true member of this community,
someone who understands that survival isn't about individual strength, It's
about collective commitment, she paused, studying my face. Your grandfather
would be proud. The words hit me harder than I expected.

(53:43):
Three weeks ago, I'd been a desperate stranger with no
connections and no future. Now I was part of something larger,
something that mattered. As evening approached, the supernatural activity intensified.
Cattle across the valley huddled in tight groups, eyes rolling
white with fear. The air itself seemed to thicken carrying

(54:05):
sounds that didn't belong, Whispers in languages I didn't recognize,
the scratch of claws on wood, the distant howl of
something that wasn't quite wolf. Father Mackenzie arrived at sunset
carrying a leather satchel filled with items that predated his
Catholic training. Salt from the dead Sea, silver crosses blessed
by practitioners of faiths older than Christianity, and sage bundles

(54:29):
harvested under specific moon phases. He moved from house to house,
reinforcing spiritual defenses with rituals that felt ancient and powerful.
This is bigger than we thought, he told Elena and
me as he completed his preparations at the ranch. The
containment isn't just weakening, it's being systematically dismantled. Something is

(54:49):
coordinating this assault, the Wendigo or something using it. There
are hierarchies in the supernatural world, layers of power. We
don't fully understand. What we've been dealing with. Might just
be the foot soldier. The first attack came at midnight.
I was monitoring the eastern perimeter when my radio crackled

(55:10):
with Sheriff Martinez's voice. All units we have activity at
the Henderson Place, multiple contacts, coordinated approach. Through my night
vision scope, I could see lights moving across Tom Henderson's property.
Not the dancing lights I'd followed earlier, but harsh, purposeful

(55:30):
illumination that hurt to look at directly. The creatures casting
those lights moved with military precision, testing defenses and probing
for weaknesses. Contact at the Morrison Ranch I reported as
shapes emerged from the tree line. Three No. Five entities
approaching from the east. This was different from my previous encounters.

(55:55):
These weren't random tests or individual hunting expeditions. This was warfare.
I followed every rule my grandfather had laid out, treating
his letter like a battlefield manual. The shotgun loaded with
rock salt shells stayed within arm's reach. The salt circles
held firm creating barriers the creatures couldn't cross. When something

(56:16):
scratched at the walls, I didn't investigate. I reinforced my
position and waited. Rule six proved crucial when one of
the entities approached the front door around two a m.
Speaking in Elena's voice, Rick, it's me, I'm hurt. Please
open the door. Recite the Lord's prayer. I called back

(56:38):
my finger on the shotgun's trigger. The voice changed, becoming
something between a growl and a laugh. Let me in, Guardian,
not tonight. The assault on the house intensified, but the
defenses held. Every rule, every precaution, every community taught lesson
came together in a symphony of protection. I wasn't just surviving,

(56:59):
I was fighting back. Elena's voice crackled through the radio. Rick,
We've got a problem the creature at your location. It's
not trying to get in, it's keeping you pinned down
while others hit the Henderson place. The realization struck me
like cold water. This wasn't about individual ranches anymore. The

(57:20):
creatures were using coordinated tactics, sacrificing direct attacks for strategic advantage.
While I was focused on defending my property, they were
systematically dismantling other parts of the containment network. I'm moving
to support Henderson, I radioed back, Negative, hold your position.
We've got this. But I could hear the strain in

(57:41):
her voice, the exhaustion that came from hours of supernatural combat.
The community was stretched thin, and people were going to
get hurt if we didn't adapt. That's when I remembered
something Doc Hernandez had said. Your grandfather was one of
the anchors of our defensive network, not just a participate,
an anchor, a central point that other defenses relied on

(58:03):
for stability. I made a decision that would have terrified
me three weeks ago. Instead of hiding behind my defenses,
I use them as a base of operations. The ranch
became command central, with Elena and me coordinating community wide
responses while maintaining our own protective perimeter. My engineering skills
proved invaluable in calculating optimal defensive positions and predicting creature

(58:27):
movement patterns. Tom, adjust your eastern fence line by thirty degrees.
I radioed to Henderson. The creature approaching from your blind
spot will hit the modified silver wire barrier. Sarah, your
barn doors are opening because they're creating electromagnetic interference. Switch
to the back up locking system, Martinez. The coordinated attack

(58:52):
is designed to drive us toward the town's center. Don't
let them funnel us into a kill zone. For the
first time, it wasn't just following someone else's plan, I
was helping to create it. The battle continued through the
night with victories and setbacks on both sides. We lost
some cattle and several buildings suffered damage, but the core

(59:14):
containment held. More importantly, no people were hurt. The community's
collective knowledge and coordinated response proved stronger than individual's supernatural power.
Dawn came slowly, bringing with it the kind of exhausted
relief that follows successful crisis management. As the supernatural activity
faded with the growing light, I found myself surrounded by

(59:37):
neighbors who no longer looked at me as an outsider.
Good work tonight, Sheriff Martinez said, shaking my hand with
genuine respect. You've earned your place here. Elena appeared at
my side, her face streaked with dust and fatigue, but
her eyes bright with pride. How do you feel like

(59:58):
I'm home? I answered, by the truth of it. The
aftermath took most of Day twenty one to manage property
damage assessments, livestock counts, and debriefings with every family involved.
But underneath the administrative work, I could feel something fundamental
had changed. The community had been tested and proven strong.
The containment system had held. More importantly, I'd found my

(01:00:21):
role within it. That evening, as Elena and I sat
on the ranch house porch, watching the sunset paint the
Texas sky in shades of gold and crimson. She outlined
her vision for the future. Cedar Hollow needs a veterinarian
who understands both sides of the job, she said her hand,
finding mine someone who can treat ordinary livestock problems and

(01:00:43):
supernatural injuries with equal skill. I've been thinking about expanding
my practice, expanding how partnership Your engineering background, combined with
my veterinary training, could revolutionize how we handle supernatural threats,
not just reactive containment, but proactive management. The idea excited

(01:01:05):
me more than I expected. What would that look like,
better defensive systems, early warning networks, maybe even research into
the supernatural ecosystem, understanding how these creatures fit into the
larger environment instead of just fighting them. I squeezed her hand.
I like the sound of that good, because I was

(01:01:26):
hoping you'd say yes to more than just the business partnership.
The question hung in the air between us, unspoken but understood.
After everything we'd been through together, the next step felt
natural and inevitable. Yes, I said, simply to all of it.
Six months later, I stood in the same spot where

(01:01:47):
I'd first encountered the false neighbor, watching a nervous young
woman read her grandfather's letter for the first time. Jennifer
Walsh had inherited the old Murphy Place on the western
edge of town, complete with her own set of supernatural
pretre rules. This is insane, she said, looking up from
the handwritten instructions, salt circles, blessed ammunition. What kind of

(01:02:09):
place is this? The kind of place where people take
care of each other, I replied, remembering my own first
reaction to my grandfather's letter. Where traditions exist for good reasons,
even if they seem strange. At first, Elena joined us,
carrying the medical kitch she'd assembled specifically for helping new
arrivals adjust to Cedar Hollow's unique requirements. Her veterinary practice

(01:02:33):
had indeed expanded with me as a full partner specializing
in supernatural defense systems. The most important thing to remember,
Elena told Jennifer, is that you're not facing this alone.
The community has been dealing with these challenges for generations.
We know what works and what doesn't, I added, with

(01:02:54):
a smile. Trust me, I learned that the hard way.
Jennifer looked between us us, seeing the confidence that came
from successful integration into something larger than ourselves. So this
gets easier, it gets familiar, I corrected, and familiar is
almost the same as easy. That evening, Elena and I

(01:03:16):
conducted our routine property check, a habit that had become
as natural as breathing. The cattle were healthy, the defenses
were strong, and the community was secure. My grandfather's ranch
was thriving under my care, but more importantly, I was
thriving as part of Cedar Hollow's protective network. Any regrets,

(01:03:37):
Elena asked, as we completed the circuit about leaving Dallas,
about the inheritance. About staying, I shook my head, none whatsoever,
Even about the supernatural aspects. I considered the question seriously.
Three weeks ago, I would have called anyone who claimed
to fight monsters a lunatic. Now I understood that some

(01:03:59):
battles were worth fighting, some responsibilities were worth accepting, and
some communities were worth protecting. Especially about the supernatural aspects,
I said, finally, it's what makes this place special, what
makes us special. Elena smiled, the expression lighting up her

(01:04:20):
face in the moonlight. I love it when you say us,
get used to it, I replied, pulling her close. I'm
not going anywhere. As we walked back toward the house,
I caught sight of the Sacred oak Tree in the distance,
its ancient branches silhouetted against the star filled Texas sky.
It had been my salvation during those first terrifying encounters,

(01:04:43):
a sanctuary when I was lost and afraid. Now it
stood as a symbol of continuity, of the deep roots
that connected past and present, individual and community, human and supernatural.
I'd found my place in that continuum, earned my belonging
through trial and commitment. The ranch was mine, now, truly mine,

(01:05:06):
in a way that had nothing to do with legal
documents or inheritance laws. I'd claimed it through understanding, defended
it through courage, and integrated it into something larger through
community cooperation. Cedar Hollow had its guardian, Elena had her partner,
and I had found the home I'd been searching for
without knowing it existed. The hungry season would return, as

(01:05:28):
it always did, but when it came, we'd be ready together.

(01:06:01):
Two