Darkening Sturgeons: Chapter Ten

This chapter of my blog fiction is a week late for good reason...

Last week was the publication of my e-book "Dark Excursions: third set" and it did sort of eat up my time...

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DARKENING STURGEONS

Chapter Ten

by John L. Harmon

 

    Sheriff Benjamin Straker and Chief Deputy Clyde Woodhouse sit silently in the parked SUV.  Their eyes stare at the sturdy brick wall of the Sturgeons Police Headquarters in front of them, both contemplating what Ms. Floridia Minch had reported.  Her uniquely informative words echo in the surrounding stillness.

    A large white van, plain as the day is long, pulled right up into the Widow Waterbottom’s cracked driveway.

    “I’ve seen that white van, Ben,” Clyde admits in a hushed voice, as if they are under surveillance in the SUV.  “On the way to Stickler Woods.”

    “I saw it then, too, Clyde,” Ben confirms in a similar tone while gripping the locked steering wheel.  “And once before, on the way back from Lake Pontoon.”

    She was a buxom blond, but there was professionalism about her.  An air of authority, like a teacher.  Very beautiful.

    “The blond woman…I, well, I…” Clyde loses his words, but finds new ones.  “I think she was the one driving.”

    He was a four-eyed, dark-haired hippie!  Though even with that hair he was surprisingly clean.

    “And the man…” Ben starts, not finishing his thought, certain the man must be the one from the bar.

    They were wearing lab-coats and performing tests or collecting samples, like in those absurd crime programs.  Except it was odd the way they worked, in unison but somehow opposite.

    Neither Ben nor Clyde knows what to think about that piece of information.  After a few more minutes of sitting in the dark SUV the law enforcement duo exit the vehicle, Ben grabbing an item from the backseat before shutting the door, and enter Headquarters to find Officer Leslie Johns waiting for them.  Ben had reported in immediately after exiting the house of Minch, so Leslie’s quick readiness is not a surprise.

    Attired in light blue, like Clyde, she is standing at the front counter with a determined smile on her face.  Her voice is like sweet maple syrup, “I’ve put out the APB for the surrounding counties.  Officers Cartwright and Norris have been called in to aid in the search for the white van in town.”

    “Excellent work, Leslie,” Ben commends, pleased with her efficiency, even if he deems it unnecessary, “but Clyde and I can search Sturgeons with you.”

    “With all due respect, Sheriff Straker, you and Chief Deputy Woodhouse have been on duty most of the day and nearly all weekend, so go home and get some sleep.  I’ll report in when we find something.”

    Ben, after a brief deliberation, realizes the need for sleep outweighs the need for action.  He also realizes a good sheriff spreads responsibilities throughout his trustworthy force.  “Clyde, you can go home and I will rest in the employee lounge.  Leslie, make sure someone wakes me when you’ve found the van.”

    “Will do, Sheriff Straker.”  Forever the professional, Officer Leslie Johns gives a nod and turns to leave, her short brown ponytail swishing in an arc.  Chief Deputy Clyde Woodhouse follows with a wave, eager to check the hits on his online dating profile within the privacy of his own home.

    Sheriff Ben Straker, as he makes his way to the employee lounge, feels an overwhelming sense of pride in the men and women who serve and protect Sturgeons.  Lawrence handpicked each of them, including Miss Whiffle who thankfully didn’t stay all night working, and they make quite a team.  Ben is certain that together they will find out what the hell is going on and prevent further disappearances.

    Entering the lounge Ben makes himself comfortable by taking off his boots, unbuttoning his shirt and placing the beige hat on the back of an old beat-up brown couch.  He situates himself on the couch, head resting on the cushioned arm, and opens the item he grabbed from the SUV.

    It is Lawrence’s decades-old high school yearbook.  The first thing he locates is the former sheriff’s senior picture.  Even though it is of a younger Lawrence, he is still recognizable; his reddish-orange hair is obvious even in black and white.

    “What was your reason for this?” Ben asks the picture, not expecting a response.

    After a moment of silence and a sigh, he flips through the pages.  Stopping every so often at a familiar name in sports, the school newspaper crew, a science fair spread, the drama club, and the chess club, he continues to ask the same question.

    Tired, and growing frustrated at the seemingly meaningless gift, or whatever it is, Ben puts the yearbook on the floor and closes his eyes.  Somewhere in his subconscious, between wakefulness and the swirl of sleep, he sees crisp blue eyes behind thick black glasses, intensified by a becoming smile.

    “Samuel Dwyer,” he mutters before falling into the sandman’s limbo.

 

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Click CHAPTER ELEVEN to continue.

Until next time, Readers, be well and Freak Out,

JLH

   

 

 

Darkening Sturgeons: Chapter Nine

 

Another week, another chapter of my piece of blog fiction...

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DARKENING STURGEONS

Chapter Nine

by John L. Harmon

    Floridia Minch, wearing her binoculars, sits extremely ladylike in a comfy purple recliner, surrounded by vivid blue velvet curtains.  Nearer to death than birth, this woman is a sight to behold, with her dainty figure and cropped bourbon wig.  She is also a force to be reckoned with, with her steely brown eyes and a voice that has been known to equally bawl out the deserving and undeserving.

    Reverent twanging faintly emits from a nearby radio as Floridia Minch reports what she witnessed this very night to the two officers-of-the-law seated in front of her on a purple sofa.  “Widow Waterbottom was on her front porch blasting away the blasphemous sound of country/gospel.”

    “Isn’t that what you’re listening to?” Chief Deputy Clyde Woodhouse asks, unsuccessfully holding back a chuckle.

    If looks could kill, Clyde would be a goner.

    “Bite your wicked tongue, young man!  This,” she points to her radio, “is gospel/country!”

    Clyde is about to inquire as to the difference, when Sheriff Benjamin Straker interrupts and apologizes, asking her to please continue.

    And Floridia Minch does, beginning with how she witnessed Straker breaking into Lawrence’s house.  (“I was investigating his sudden departure with the aid of a key,” Ben quickly explains to a wide-eyes and seemingly impressed Clyde.)  She then describes how, sometime after Straker departed, the light of the Widow Waterbottom’s porch slowly darkened.  After about ten minutes, she noticed the light gradually illuminating with Bertha Waterbottom nowhere to be seen.

    “Did you hear anything during this event?” Ben probes, thinking back to the helpless screaming of Bob Kinney and Tommy Schroder as described by the witnesses.

    “Her sinful music was far too loud to hear anything else.”

    “Well, thank you, Ms. Minch, for reporting this and giving us your time,” the Sheriff states as he rises, feeling there is nothing else to be collected from this witness.

    It has been a long weekend for Ben Straker, made even longer by this apparent third strange disappearance.  He had been at the bar, having a second unadulterated soda, when Joe the dispatcher contacted him.  There was a quick decision, on Ben’s part, to leave Officer Leslie Johns on duty at Headquarters and call in Chief Deputy Woodhouse.  Clyde had been present during the prior investigations, so he has more first-hand knowledge of the situation.

    “Have a nice evening, Ms. Minch,” the Chief Deputy nods, eager to escape the country/gospel or gospel/country, whichever, whatever the difference is.

    As the law enforcement duo turn to leave, Floridia asks in a lackadaisical, non-consequential tone, “Wouldn’t you like to know about the large white van that pulled up just moments after the porch light returned?”

    Ben and Clyde come to a screeching halt at the pointed question.  Giving each other a look of complete surprise, they turn and return to the purple sofa.

 

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Click CHAPTER TEN to continue.

Until next time, Readers, be well and Freak Out,

JLH

 

Darkening Sturgeons: Chapter Eight

My blog fiction continues...

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DARKENING STURGEONS

Chapter Eight

by John L. Harmon

    Samuel sits in a bar predominately illuminated by neon signs, with corners as dark as his mop of hair.  Leaving his lab-coat with his coworker, he is attired in a dark blue, long sleeved, buttoned shirt (three buttons unfastened), faded black denim jeans, and blacker than black shoes.  Some would feel uncomfortable sticking out like a sore thumb in a hand full of plaid and rock concert t-shirts., but Samuel left such awkward feelings behind in his teenage years.  He easily relaxes on a stool, sipping a Gibson, enjoying the stadium rock of the jukebox, and conversing with the bartender.

    “So this is the pinnacle of Sturgeons nightlife?”

    “Yup,” Gordon, the bartender of many years, answers, giving a sly glance to the crowd whooping it up among the tables and chairs.  “For the 21-and-over crowd anyways.”

    Gordon leaves this extremely new customer to fill the orders of a few demanding regulars.  He has never seen a crowd like this on a Sunday night, but he knows it is a reaction to the strange tales circulating around town.  There is nothing like bizarre tragedies to put folk in a partying mood, to celebrate life and forget death.

    Samuel, sitting on the stool and taking in the rambunctious atmosphere, is contemplating similar thoughts.  Even if he could share what he knows, or suspects, the information would not have a mellowing effect on the crowd.  In fact, it would have quite the opposite result.

    Suddenly, the creak of the door interrupts all thought processes.  There in the doorway, silhouetted by a streetlamp and faintly illuminated by red neon, stands Sheriff Benjamin Straker, his beige hat on.  He remains motionless for an eternity of a moment, inadvertently silencing the music, the crowd, the world.  Well, at least one person’s world.

    Samuel’s crisp blue eyes zero in on that red neon-tinted beige and work their way down from there.  His becoming smile grows with the realization this uniformed man is the one he has twice caught sight of, albeit briefly.  Now there are no vehicles passing like ships in the night, there is just a solid stationary space.

    Releasing the room from the motionless moment, Ben lets the door creak shut as he maneuvers to the bar, placing his beige hat upon it.  He holds a finger up to Gordon, indicating his usual, and for a split second his light brown eyes roam, landing upon Samuel sitting several stools away.  Then this sweet potential is shredded, as if fate has other plans.

    The human equivalent of a freak storm cloud rises behind Sheriff Straker, glaring, fearful eyes are the lightning, and demanding voices the thunder.  Questions and accusations rain down on him as he turns around to bravely weather the onslaught.

    “Where are Bob and the Schroder boy?”  “How is it the Newcastle girl and Ol’ Ned are all right?”  “Why did Lawrence leave?”  “He had to have a reason!”  “Tell us what happened?”  “You know something, Straker!”  “Tell us!”  The crowd continues, shouting various names of townsfolk who could be responsible, along with accusing the government, Bigfoot and aliens.

    Samuel sits there silently, mesmerized by the mob mentality.  He has never witnessed such a fascinating and disturbing display.  After a moment he nudges up his glasses and rises to his feet to put an end to this growing insanity.

    In the same instant, Gordon bangs a croquet mallet against the bar and bellows like a foghorn, “Sheriff Straker is doing all he can!  Let him have a drink in peace, as any man deserves!”

    This does the trick.  The storm of people subsides, falling back to the tables and resuming the music.  Sheriff Benjamin Straker, none the worse for wear, faces Gordon with a ‘thank you’.  He had been waiting for such an angry scene.

    Samuel, remaining on his feet, decides there is no time like the present.  He saunters over, taking a breath in preparation to introduce himself to the rather striking Sheriff, when his cell phone beeps loudly, indicating a vital text message from Christine.

    “Damn it,” he whispers, checking the screen.  Detection!  The one-half of a scientific duo quickly departs the bar, leaving his heart behind.

    “Who was that, Gordon?” Ben inquires, in a not-completely-professional tone, between sips of his unadulterated soda.

    Gordon, the bartender of many years, puts away his croquet mallet and shares with the Sheriff what information he gleaned from his extremely new customer, “Says his name is Samuel Dwyer and that he is just passing through.”

 

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Click CHAPTER NINE to continue.

Until next time, Readers, be well and Freak Out,

JLH

Author's Note:

Are you enjoying "Darkening Sturgeons"?

If your answer is yes, please check out the trailer for my first e-book...

http://youtu.be/vPSOf7cUh94

It is a twisted tale of friendship, love, betrayal, and death.

 

Darkening Sturgeons: Chapter Seven

The wayward voice-activated internet search inspired piece of fiction continues...

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DARKENING STURGEONS

Chapter Seven

by John L. Harmon

    The widow Waterbottom sways gently on her porch swing, keeping time with the country/gospel blaring from window speakers.  It is a near-perfect summer evening in Sturgeons, in one of her many opinions.  The sun is beginning to set, a gentle breeze floats lazily around, and there is a glass of homemade iced-tea in her hand.

    She observes with mild interest the Sheriff’s SUV pulling into the neighboring driveway.  Out of the vehicle emerges Benjamin Straker, a young man she doesn’t really know, but would gladly relate her version of his biography to anyone within earshot.  Speaking of earshot, the widow Waterbottom decides to stop the young man from wasting his time.

    “He’s gone!” she hollers over the country/gospel.

    Acting Sheriff Ben Straker, barely hearing the old woman’s voice, stops and faces the music.

    “What?”

    “He’s gone!”

    Ben walks over to the Waterbottom front porch and asks the widow to turn down the music.

    She complies and then reiterates, “He’s gone.”

    A dark, worrisome fear creeps underneath Ben’s skin, conjuring the names of Bob Kinney and Tommy Schroder.  “Where did Sheriff Lawrence go?”

    “Don’t know.  He just packed up and left in a hurry,” Bertha Waterbottom answers vaguely.  Much like some of her neighbors, she doesn’t ask questions, she just simply observes and judges.

    “When?

    “Yesterday.”

    Lester Lawrence obviously wasted no time in vacating not only his position but Sturgeons, as well.  This does not detour Ben from going forth with his original plan.

    “Thank you, Mrs. Waterbottom,” he gives a nod and turns away, but then stops and turns back, always an officer.  “By the way, please keep the music down.  As Lawrence always tells the teens with their rap/metal, not everyone likes your kind of music.”

    “What does aluminum foil have to do with it?”

    “Never mind, Mrs. Waterbottom.  Never mind.”

    Ben turns away again, not knowing if he should smile or scream as Mrs. Waterbottom brazenly ups the volume of her country/gospel.  The twangy reverence serenades him to the next-door porch.  Once there he reaches up, removing a spare key from the light fixture, and quickly enters the house of Lawrence, muffling the blaring music as he shuts the heavy door.

    Switching on lights, Ben is confronted with the truth.  Empty, abandoned rooms are what he finds upon a search of the familiar house.  Only one space, the living room, shows remaining evidence of the man who had lived there.

    Two items are propped up on the fireplace mantel, the smaller leaning against the larger.  Ben approaches the scene curiously, but cautiously, uncertain of anything after the events of this weekend.  He suddenly recognizes his own name written on a white envelope in Lawrence’s loose-style scrawl.

    He impulsively grabs the envelope, hastily opens it, and pulls out a letter, hoping it will provide answers.  Reading it aloud, his voice echoing in the surrounding emptiness, Ben is dismayed at its brevity.

    “Ben—You are a good man and you will make a great Sheriff.—Lester Lawrence.”

    The parentally abandoned man slips the letter, more note really, back into the envelope and the whole thing into a back pocket.  He then picks the second item off the mantel.  It is a decades-old high school yearbook.  Ben flips aimlessly through the black & white pages, shaking his head in confusion and disappointment.

    Sheriff Benjamin Straker leaves the house of Lawrence, once again serenaded by the widow Waterbottom’s country/gospel, and unilaterally decides that he could use a drink.  All the while, unbeknownst to him, binoculared eyes have been watching from behind blue velvet curtains.

 

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Click CHAPTER EIGHT to continue.

Until next time, Readers, be well and Freak Out,

JLH

Darkening Sturgeons: Chapter Six

My piece of blog fiction, concerning a small town named Sturgeons, continues...
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DARKENING STURGEONS

Chapter Six

by John L. Harmon

    Acting Sheriff Benjamin Straker, and at the moment he really feels like he is acting, sits brooding behind the desk of his quickly vacated predecessor.  It has been a long Sunday, and now, at eight o’clock in the evening, there doesn’t seem to be much to do but wait.  Wait for evidence that isn’t there.  Wait for Bob Kinney and Tommy Schroder to turn up.  Wait for answers that make sense.

    He runs his fingers over his buzzcut hair in mental frustration.  Ned Dobson and Tracy Newcastle are not known for being liars or prone to flights of fancy.  They are also not known for being murderers or abductors.  A ballcap, a lawnchair, a truck with a boat trailer, a picnic basket, and a blanket only prove that certain people were at certain places at certain times; nothing else.

    Ben’s light chestnut eyes traverse the top of the old oak desk, hoping to distract his mind from the problem twisting before him like a pretzel.  Soon they rest upon a small, silver, oval frame placed innocuously to the far right.  The photograph, a trimmed snapshot, strikes him familiar and he picks it up for thorough examination.

    There is Sheriff Lester Lawrence, his hair still showing some of its natural reddish-orange, clad in his beige uniform.  Standing next to him is a young boy wearing the Sheriff’s sturdy hat.  Ben starts a little as he recognizes the boy as himself at 12 years of age.

    It was the day they met, fifteen years ago, at a school function.  Police officers were there, along with firefighters, lawyers, and doctors, all presenting their careers to the burgeoning future.  Young Ben took to the police officers, which surprised no one since he always followed the rules in any situation, but that was not the real reason he was interested in such a profession.

    Those shiny badges were an unspoken promise.  An unspoken promise Ben had made to himself to find his father, who had left him and his mother before he was born.  He believed a badge could give him that power, but as time would prove, he didn’t need it.

    Sheriff Lester Lawrence became his mentor, his father figure, by teaching young Ben how to fish, how to play golf, how to build birdhouses, and, most importantly, how to fire a pistol.  The desire to find his biological father slowly faded away from Benjamin Straker over the years.  Any last vestiges of that dream died when his mother succumbed to cancer.

    Ben sets the memories and the photograph down and slams a defiant fist against the desk.  He is not going to allow another parental figure to slip away.  First his father, then his mother, and now Sheriff Lawrence.

    “He is not getting off the hook that easily,” Ben mutters, standing up and grabbing the beige hat off the coatrack.  Opening the Sheriff’s office door, he is surprised to find Miss Miranda Whiffle, and her blond bouffant-esque hair, hunched over the front counter.  His determined attitude temporarily softens, “Miss Whiffle, what are you doing here at this hour on a Sunday night?  The dispatcher and the officer-on-duty can handle things.”

    “I’m certain Joe and Leslie can,” Miss Whiffle chuckles sweetly, “but this weekend has been so hectic that I needed to catch up on my own paperwork.”

    “Well, okay then,” he smiles proudly at the hardest working soul in Sturgeons.  “Take it easy, Miss Whiffle.”

    “You, too, Sheriff Straker.”

    Sheriff Straker.

    Those alliterative words follow him outside and into the SUV, where the fifteen year old memories roar back to life with the engine.  The first time he met Lawrence.  The first time he wore the Sheriff’s beige hat.  The first time he was certain where his life was headed.  Now his destiny seems to have come to pass.  Just one last piece of unfinished pseudo-parental business to take care of before he can drop the acting and simply be Sheriff.

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Click CHAPTER SEVEN to continue.

Until next time, Readers, be well and Freak Out,

JLH

Darkening Sturgeons: Chapter Five

My piece of blog fiction continues…

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DARKENING STURGEONS 

Chapter Five

by  John L. Harmon

    The spectacled man, rims as thick and dark as his mop of hair, maneuvers slowly around a particular tree in Stickler Woods, holding a black gadget in his left hand.  A faint hum emits from the technological contraption, accompanied by an occasional flickering light.  He intensely watches the visual information until satisfied.  With a click of a button, he powers down the gadget and strolls over to his blond coworker.

    “Atmosphere complete?” the woman inquires, making certain everything is accounted for.

    “Yes,” the man answers, hunching down in tandem with his coworker to deposit black gadgets, and several vials from lab coat pockets, into the metal containers.

    “Good.”

    Standing up together, they hover over the remnants of a quickly discarded picnic.  A soft blanket, half-unrolled, lays near a turned over basket, forgotten and dirty.  The contents of the picnic basket have spilled about, giving them something to ponder.

    “Bananas…” they say simultaneously, curiously.

    “Should we bag them?” he asks.

    “No, we should leave them for the police.”

    “If you insist.”

    A knowing glance passes between the scientific duo before heading, in unison, to their large white van.  Easy silence surrounds them as they buckle up and drive out of Stickler Woods onto paved road.  Their direction is conspicuously aiming for Sturgeons.

    “Are you on watch tonight, Christine?” the man breaks the silence from the passenger seat.

    “Yes,” she answers, not giving much thought to his question until she hears an approaching vehicle.  “There is much to see in this town, Samuel.”

    “Indeed,” he replies, flashing that becoming smile and giving his glasses a nudge up.  His blue eyes zero in on an extremely beige hat before the SUV shoots past in a black blur, cherries on.

    Acting Chief Deputy Clyde Woodhouse, he broached that subject yesterday afternoon, fiddles with the passenger side seatbelt strap, contemplating the large white van that just sped by.  Well, not the van so much as the blond woman driving it.  The glimpse was fleeting and uncertain, but enough to leave him beguiled.

    Acting Sheriff Benjamin Straker sits stoically behind the wheel.  He once again noticed the large white van and its out of county license plates.  This time, however, he also noticed the two occupants, but he barely gave it a thought, for his mind is currently in a quagmire with this new incident playing off of yesterday’s.

    Tracy Newcastle showed up at her house in such an incoherent and disheveled state that her parents rushed her to the hospital and called the police to report an assault.  After the doctors examined the young woman and medically calmed her down, it was Ben’s turn.  Her story left the Acting Sheriff perplexed and left Mr. and Mrs. Newcastle completely distraught.  Not helping their parental trauma was the fact a streak of their daughter’s perfect blond hair had turned a startling white.

    Driving into Stickler Woods, Ben wonders what information he will have for Tommy Schroder’s parents.  Is Tommy still there or has he vanished like Bob Kinney?  The dragging of Lake Pontoon turned up nada, not even a sickly-green rowboat, giving him doubts about what they will find in this preliminary search.

    “Distract me, Clyde,” the Acting Sheriff orders, pulling the SUV to a stop.

    “Huh-wha…?” Clyde inquires poetically.

    “I need to clear my head so I can focus,” Ben explains.  “How was your date last night?”

    Clyde, continuing to fiddle with the seatbelt strap, eagerly provides some details, “She was smart, sizzlin’, and direct.  We had a real good time.”

    Ben nods in silent approval.  He is glad something good happened in Sturgeons among the tragic strangeness of the last 24 hours.  It is exactly what he needed to hear.

    “Now let’s find Tommy Schroder.”

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Click CHAPTER SIX to continue.

Until next time, Readers, be well and Freak Out,

JLH

 

Darkening Sturgeons: Chapter Four

My continuing piece of fiction continues…
 

DARKENING STURGEONS 

Chapter Four

by  John L. Harmon

 

    Young lovers, dressed in matching white shirts, khaki shorts, and brown hiking boots, stroll hand-in-hand through Stickler Woods, basking in the sweet afterglow of sharing a glorious sunrise.  The young man and young woman had spread a soft blanket on Stickler Hill and breakfasted as the dawn broke, splashing the valley below with warm, vivid color.  Each building in Sturgeons radiated with the promise of a new day, full of new experiences.  In the distance, on the opposite side of town, Lake Pontoon shimmered like liquid gold, somehow appearing more tranquil than ever, despite the crazy story that had circulated throughout town by yesterday evening.

    The strange disappearance of Bob Kinney barely registers on their youthful minds, for it was an odd tale involving old people.  All they can focus on is the sumptuous experience of their sunrise breakfast.

    “Thanks for making it with me, Tracy,” Tommy Schroder expresses his sincere gratitude, giving his girl’s hand a gentle squeeze.

    “You’re welcome, Tommy.”  Tracy Newcastle smiles warmly at her beau and adds, “Thank you for bringing the bananas.”

    “No.  Thank you, Tracy,” Tommy corrects.  “The bananas were your suggestion and they fit in perfectly.”

    A comfortable silence settles between the young soulmates as they continue their woodland stroll to their respective homes.  He swings the picnic basket, in his free hand, a little higher.  She cuddles the rolled-up blanket, tucked under her free arm, a little tighter.  The sun shining, the birds singing, and the heavy, sweet smell of Stickler Woods seem to reflect the feelings they share for one another.

    Tommy Schroder and Tracy Newcastle are, for romantics, the epitome of High School Sweethearts.  Dating since 8^th grade, the inseparable lovebirds are still going strong during this summer before senior year.  For cynics, the quarterback and the cheerleader are vomit-inducing plastic dolls with perfect blond hair, empty blue eyes, and lightly sun-kissed skin.

    “I’ve gotta take a leak,” Tommy crudely interrupts their pleasant stroll.  Releasing hands and giving Tracy the picnic basket, he kisses her cheek, as if in fond farewell.

    “Hurry back,” Tracy chuckles outwardly, while grimacing inwardly at his choice of distasteful phrasing.  She loves this man to the point of firmly and foolishly believing he will lose his crasser ways after senior year, college or finally marriage.

    Tommy, having so sense of appropriate distance, chooses a tree ten feet away to eliminate behind.  The obvious sound of his zipper shooting down, proceeded by the heavy splattering of a steady stream, and his relieving sigh, reverberates through the woods.

    Tracy, slightly irritated at Tommy’s urination proximity, turns her back on the hidden scene and silently wishes he would have picked a tree farther away.  Attempting to focus on anything other than the offending noises, she notices something odd.  Something wrong.  Something missing.

    Just moments before birds were joyously singing, providing a natural soundtrack for their love.  Now there is silence, except for Tommy’s never-ending leaking and sighing.  This sudden realization invokes a physical sensation of nameless dread in Tracy Newcastle, as if all of her childhood fears were just proven true.

    “Tommy…” she begins, facing his direction, but is drowned out by a bone-chilling clamor.

    Initially it sounds like another of Tommy’s relieving sighs but it escalates into a baritone scream of horror.  Tommy charges from behind the tree in a dead run and then trips as his khaki shorts fall around his ankles.  The football player scrambles to erect himself, but his scoreboard clock has hit zero.

    Tracy watches in frozen terror as something black and formless emerges.  It’s as if the air itself has darkened, moving with purpose and thought.  The darkness grabs at her screaming and struggling beau, viciously yanking him off the ground and pulling him behind the tree.

    Tommy Schroder’s anguished screams abruptly die and this spurs her into action.  Dropping the items from their memorable sunrise breakfast, Tracy Newcastle runs silently for her life, shrieking on the inside and failing to notice the birds of Stickler Woods resume their cheerful singing.

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Click CHAPTER FIVE to continue.

Until next time, Readers, be well …and Freak Out,

JLH