supernatural mystery Super Short Stories

Don’t ever go down Potter’s Road after dark. During the day you can traipse about in the hollow as much as you like. Ride your bicycle. Take your lady friend for a walk. Fish in the stream. Do anything you please. But when the sun sinks behind the hills, stay away.

Not all of Potter’s Road is haunted at night mind ya. You can walk safely from Vincent’s Bridge, all the way down into town. It’s getting past Robber’s Rock, to Vincent’s Bridge that gets you jiggered. Before Robber’s Rock, you’re as free as a bird, past it, and you’re doomed.

It all began forty years ago. Back then Potter’s Road was safe to walk at any time of day. The whole length of it. Other than a tree root or an ill placed rock, there was nothing there that could harm you.

One bright summer’s day a man walked into town. He had no horse and no bicycle, his only mode of transport was his own two feet. Now people say that this man had been lucky from birth. To all appearances he was one of the most vile looking beggars that ever walked into the town. He wore long robes that were old and full of bits of cloth that had been patched on, to keep the garment from falling apart. His face was dirty and his hair was prematurely grey, and wild. Even his shoes were full of holes; he himself seemed to have very little luck.

But the man himself was very lucky.

Lucky for others that is.

If you helped this man out, your fortunes would change for the better.

I heard another sound, which seemed to be the mournful cry of some sad and pathetic creature coming from deep inside the jungle, sending chills pulsating throughout my body.

Yet, I continued to walk deeper into the jungle as if unable to control my body’s movements. It was surrealistic, and for a moment, I wondered if I might be dreaming. I passed through the jungle along the winding path without being accosted and eventually exited the massive wall of tall trees to find myself at the base of the extensive mountain range.

In the distance, at the base of the nearest mountain, I saw a large opening to what appeared to be a cave. I would have missed this had it not been for the eerie fluorescent blue glow emanating from inside, causing the opening to look like a giant pale blue eye against the blackness of the mountain face.

I walked toward the opening having no more idea why than I had when I walked through the jungle. Behind me, I could hear that unidentifiable mournful cry, which a chorus of similar cries had now joined. I felt as if they were trying to warn me against going inside the cave.

However, I knew nothing would stop me as I was drawn into the cave. Strangely, the glowing blue light seemed to calm me in a way I couldn’t begin to explain. Yet the closer I got to the iridescent opening, the louder the warning cries from deep in the jungle became.

I turned and saw hundreds of pairs of silvery red eyes glimmering in the blackness. I took a deep breath and passed through the cavernous entrance.

By the time the snow melted, five people were dead.

The village of Viremoor had always been quiet, too quiet, Detective Eloise Marrin used to say, before Winter Garden came alive with ghosts. It was supposed to be an old, forgotten estate. A crumbling relic hidden behind frost-covered hedgerows and rusted iron gates. But over the course of two months, it became something else:

A stage for murder.

Five victims. Five perfect crime scenes. And all of them, in one way or another, pointed to Thomas Vale, the godson of Victor Harroway, the late owner of the manor and a man with enough wealth to buy a town’s silence.

I was out behind the shed watering the tomatoes and the eggplant when I heard Charlie calling for me.

“Dad! Dad! Come quick!”

Well, I didn’t go there quick. I didn’t even move. I was tired. Dog tired, actually, after working at the plant all day spray painting the doors to Dodge trucks and then off to work at the feed and seed store at 4pm and just got home a half hour ago at 7:45…I was done running for people.

Charlie came running to the garden screaming: “Dad! There’s a hole in the ground! Like in the movies! The ground is moving! The ground is moving!”

I swiveled around slowly to face him, the water hose blasting the plants, the lawn chair, and finally Charlie. He laughed as he tried to defend himself from the spraying water, yelling for me to cut it out. I dropped the hose and asked him what was so important he had to interrupt the only enjoyment I get the entire day.

His response: “The earth might swallow all of us up!”

I blinked.

“Including your mother?”

“Dad! Yeah!”

“Even Gosomer?” He was our Blue tick hound who had little patience for squirrels, passing cars and generally anyone walking up the drive, including me.

“I said everybody, damn it!” Charlie immediately looked down at the ground and apologized.

“Alright,” I said, removing my hands from my waist. “I’ll look at your moving earth, Charlie Cole, if it will humor you.”

“Dad,” Charlie said with a scoff added at the end. “I wish you’d stop saying if it will humor me, usually when I’m serious nothing will make me laugh.”

Huh. I had to smile at that. Barely twelve and the boy already has his mother’s biting wit.

“Okay, okay. Where’s the hole.”

Once I was done crying, I apologized.

“Why are you apologizing?” He asked.

I didn’t know, actually. “I don’t know. For wasting your time. I’m so tired. Recently, I haven’t been sleeping.”

“You haven’t wasted my time. You told me what you saw on the recording. What was the date your camera recorded this . . . incident?” he said.

“The actual murder? Two nights ago. At 3:08 AM. They were all at 3:08.”

“All? What do you mean all?”

He still hadn’t written anything down, so I half expected him to stand up and walk me back out to the front.

“There were several recordings of the man, both men really, before the murder.”

“Why don’t you go ahead and send all of the recordings to me when you get home. We haven’t had an unsolved murder in our district since early February,” he said and stood up, indicating our meeting was over.

“Sure, Yeah. But that’s the weird part.” I hesitated and he didn’t speak. “It doesn’t look like it was filmed in front of my house.” I didn’t mention that the blood squirting from Bald Man looked fake. He could make his own judgement when he reviewed it.

He looked behind me and nodded, likely responding to a detective behind him rolling his eyes at what I’d just said. Nonetheless, he ushered me out, handing me his card with information to send the recordings on the back.

Once home, I sent the recordings, but wasn’t surprised when I didn’t hear back. Then, I ate cereal for dinner and laid in bed without brushing my teeth or removing my makeup. For the first time in months, I slept through the night.