Book by: Cobber

Chapter 8: Chapter 8

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It was only 9:00 pm but the town was characteristically quite. The Wellow Falls Gazette was located on Burlap Road, a few blocks from Main street. His car glided past the grocery store and Luis slowed as he passed the DeMilo's pharmacy where the Hansen boy's car had been found. As he left the center of town, he sped up and turned on the radio. He was fiddling with the knobs when something caught his eye and made him slam on the brakes. The back of the car rose, and the front tired jived slightly to the right in protest. His headlights only illuminated the black pavement and the yellow median stripes and he only saw a blur of something disappear into the darkness of the woods.

Raccoon, he thought. "Raccoon," he whispered, realizing that he was really out of shape if a simple murder had put him on edge. As he drove, he thought about cemeteries and how they always seemed to be a focal point of a story, or at least his stories. They were places of beginning and ends. Beginnings, because often the first hint of a story would become evident at a cemetery during a funeral. People sobbed, and cried, and talked. Notes were passed and gossip often followed the body down into the grave. He liked to think that his death would spawn such rumors and gossip, and that perhaps in this way he would outlive his body and actual existence in the world of the living.

They were also ends, and the reason for that was apparent. It was where the body was lowered and the dirt shoveled onto it; where nature waited to lay claim to the elements it had lent out for the briefest period of time; an end to a bargain and a life, a beginning to a fresh chain of rumors and stories, motions and currents in the never-ending flow of life.

Luis rapped the dashboard and told himself to stop getting so philosophical. He could wax poetic about graveyards but he really didn't care for them.

A few minutes later he arrived at the wrought iron gate to the Wellow Falls Cemetery. He drove around about a quarter mile from the entrance and parked his car by the side of the road. In his glove box was a flashlight and a small camera, which he grabbed before exiting the car. He quietly closed the door and crossed the street. He jumped over the short rock wall delineating the cemetery grounds and immediately saw rows of tombstones curling away in all directions. Sighing, he got his bearings and began to walk around the perimeter. He was at home in graveyards and had found the Hanson plot on the Internet, but finding it was not as easy as he had thought it would be.

The only markers in the cemetery were the gravestones, and he had difficulty using them as guideposts. The stones themselves varied like the lives of the people living under them. Some were tall and narrow, arcing towards the heavens, while others were box-like, true mausoleums. Most though, were plain, just what he had always imagined a gravestone should look like. A few had flowers or American flags placed beside them.

He passed through what looked like the older part of the cemetery where the stones were worn by the passing of the years. Luis new that acid rain had probably given the decay process a little bit of help.

The cemetery was quiet although every now and then he would catch movement in the bushes or hear something scampering away. It reassured Luis that at least animals were not scared by the bodies underneath them, or deterred by the ghosts which moved unseen through the field.

He may have wandered forever if he hadn't heard another sound. It was a faint scratching, an abrasive sound, like when he cleaned his kitchen sink with cleanser. At first he dismissed it as the animals, but its regularity made him realize it was something else. His pulse quickened as he shut off his flash light and quietly made his way towards it.

He moved back through the old cemetery and towards a newer section. It began to look familiar. He crept quietly along, keeping down so that he wasn't totally visible in the moonlight. Call it superstition, but Luis had learned to be cautious amongst the dead. He patted underneath his left armpit and felt the reassuring bulk of his pistol.

He ducked behind one particularly large stone about twenty yards from the Hanson plot and listened.

He heard the scratching again and then a grating sound, like someone moving the cover of a toilet. He shivered.

It was strange but he could have sworn that he smelled gasoline.

He turned to move closer and that was when a snarling object came flying at him. Luis raised his arms in alarm and staggered backwards. Something hard glanced off his shoulder and smashed into his chest, propelling him off the gravestone and onto the soft ground. His chest ached but he ignored it and watched a figure come out of the darkness.

Luis reached for his gun but his attacker quickly had the tip of a metal shovel against his neck.

"One move and I'll push." As if to stress the point, the attacker applied a little pressure.

"I'm just a reporter. I'm here to get a story. Really. My name is Luis Sanchez. I'm a reporter with the Wellow Falls Gazette."

The shovel sliced across his neck opening a slight wound underneath his adam's apple.

He let out a little yelp and felt a trickle of blood make its way down his neck.

"Okay, you're bleeding." The figure removed the shovel and offered Luis a hand. He grabbed it and pulled himself up. Only then did he realize he had been ambushed by Preston Dregor.

His chest was throbbing but that didn't prevent him from unleashing a torrent of fury.

"What the hell did you think you were doing! You could have killed me! I knew you were a screwball, but this is too much! Or were you the killer? I've got reports that you beat the poor kid up the morning before he was found dead! I always thought you should have been one of the suspects!" Preston's eyes were not apologetic, but murderous.

If there was a bad element in Wellow Falls it was Preston Dregor. The boy was by the far the worst bully Luis had ever come across. Burglary, thugary, vagrancy, almost anything bad could be traced to the kid. Luis had heard that his father beat him and would have felt some pity, if the kid just wasn't so mean and angry. You couldn't feel sympathy for someone that was determined to bite the hand that helped.

"Ssshhh, do you want to get us killed," Preston hissed.

"Do you know what's going on here?" The boy's face was impassive and cold.

"You know, it figures that you would have found your way here. It just figures."

"What's that supposed to mean," Luis asked although he had a pretty good idea of what Preston was hinting. He had no problem admitting he liked different types of stories. And if this punk wanted to insinuate he was a tabloid journalist interested in the bizarre and the occult, he could go to hell.

"I don't have time to explain."

"Ah, go to hell Preston." They glowered at each other for a few seconds before Luis realized it was useless to argue with the kid. At the very least, he could use the psycho for some type of cover or protection.

"Do you hear the sound?" he asked Preston.

"Yeah."

"I'm going to see what it is," he said while moving gingerly forward. Preston grabbed his arm and he spun around, thinking another attack was imminent. Instead, he looked like he wanted to tell Luis something. He just said simply:

"Be careful."

"Thanks."

Together, they quietly advanced. There was a slight rise blocking their view of the freshly dug graves. Once they passed it, Luis looked in horror at the source of the scratching sound.

Submitted: September 29, 2006

Horror fantasy horror evil forces monarch