The day of the meeting arrived, and I found myself seated in the town hall’s modest conference room.
The chief was there, along with several council members, their faces a mix of curiosity and disinterest.
As the discussion began, I felt the familiar chill return, the memory of that night at the Thompson place looming large.
“You wanted to discuss something about your patrols?” the chief prompted, his tone neutral.
I nodded, taking a moment to gather my thoughts.
“Yes, it’s about the Thompson place,” I started, my voice steady but low.
“There have been strange occurrences, noises, and signs of recent activity. It’s not just an old house anymore.”
One of the council members leaned forward, her expression skeptical.
“Are you suggesting it’s haunted?” she asked, a hint of amusement in her voice.
I shook my head.
“Not haunted, but something’s going on. I think it warrants a closer look.”
Silence filled the room, the weight of my words hanging heavily.
Finally, the chief spoke, his voice measured.
“We’ll review your reports and discuss it further.”
It wasn’t a commitment, but it was something.
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