The bucket of water bumped against Fay’s leg with each step. The tombstones cast long shadows in the sunset where she limped. She readjusted her small hands around the bucket handle, and the ghosts watched her go.
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“We’ve got to get that junk out of the attic sometime soon,” my mom tells me.
I flip a page in the book I’m reading. “You mean you’ve got to get that junk out of the attic?” Halloween was my favorite holiday. Every year, my best friend Sam and I ventured into the night with one goal in mind: bring home enough candy to last until Christmas. To accomplish this, we stuck to the north side of town — a rich neighborhood that gave out choice candy bars and other sweets. One house even made caramel apples. Sam and I both agreed, however, that the best house in the neighborhood was 465 Andover Court. Unlike the others that shelled out candy at the door, or hosted apple-bobbing competitions on their front porches, 465 Andover brought their Halloween party to the front lawn. The young couple that lived there set up a grill and several lawn chairs, and served hot dogs and burgers to all the cold, tired, and hungry trick-or-treaters.
I met the old man for the first time in a lone shack on the edge of a forest. My father and I had to cross the creek that continued a mile into town. It was raining that night and I was cold, so he ended up carrying me to the other side, his hands under my arms. The earth on the bank of the river cradled our feet like a wet pillow. He gripped my small, clammy hand and pulled me from the cattails into the shadow of the shed.
When I had not yet managed to kill myself with my own curiosity by the time thirty years had passed, my relatives told me the story of the second incident like this:
This short story won 3rd place at the 2016 UW-Whitewater Creative Writing Festival in the Tales of Terror and Mystery category. Dad had been missing for weeks. The police admitted they were reluctant to go after him, even if he was one of their own. Everyone knew the case he’d been working on, even my little brother and me, who’d heard him discussing it at the dinner table on numerous occasions. The string of missing persons connected with the abandoned meat-packing district on the edge of town had left even the best detectives scratching their heads.
One Hour Later
The body will be cold. Everyone will have expected this. No one will be surprised. This short story won 2nd place at the 2015 UW-Whitewater Creative Writing Festival in the Tales of Terror and Mystery category. Sadie and Ava stood on the sidewalk outside the old house. They each took long, hard looks at it, and finally Ava spoke up.
“It looks haunted,” she told her friend. |