|A Midnight Shadow (standard:horror, 1744 words)|
|Author: Chris Herzig||Added: Aug 09 2001||Views/Reads: 2231/1184||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|When you think your alone in the woods, your not.|
A Midnight Shadow By: Chris Herzig The water glistened off Donald’s hand as he ran it through the wet grass. Slowly he lifted his fingers to his mouth tasting the clear liquid. The rolling clouds now blanketed the moon as if shielding it the way a father would shield his child from a rabid dog. He looked down at his hand, which shined no longer with the faded source of light. His eyes winced and his lips frowned as he spat the water from his mouth. “Rust” he exclaimed. Wiping his large callused hands across his faded blue jeans, he stood upright with a confused expression on his face. He took the sleeve of his aged flannel shirt and ran it across his lips disposing of the lingering taste. The sound of the cotton rubbing his 6 o’clock shadow rang reminiscent of a child’s small plastic shovel scooping sand. A gust of wind began to pick up as it whistled through the needles of the pine trees. Reaching for the right side of his utility belt, he grasped his large flashlight. The clouds now engulfed the moon to the point where Donald had to fumble his thumb over the metal base to find the on switch. The light shot out bright and strong, reassuring him that the flashlight sale at the country store was indeed a good investment. With his eyes now adjusting, he noticed small white streaks flying in front of him. As his sight grew more focused, he could see that the streaks were snowflakes soaring through his beam of light. Rotating his flashlight, he began to investigate his surroundings. He stood alone in the dark embrace of Porters forest. Standing in a large patch of grass, he noticed in every direction the seemingly never-ending rows of green pine trees. The ground under the trees was colored blood red from dead pine needles that had fallen. Even uncanny was the fact that no trees grew in the almost perfect circle of grass in which he was standing. Off to the north of where he stood the semi-circle carvings of gravestones peered at him. There were twenty or so marked graves and probably others now unmarked due to robbery and weathering of the headstones. Most of the engravings were illegible but a few stood in excellent condition. Donald took the duffel bag off his shoulder laying it flat on the ground. Just above the zipper, a patch had been stitched across its body and there was a large wooden handle sticking out. The patch bore the profile of a phantom with the letters O.P.I. Below the initials were the words Ohio’s Paranormal Investigations. From the bag emerged a magnificent camera decorated with a large telephoto lens. He began snapping shots of the graveyard at an excited, almost frantic pace. He turned his body to obtain a sideways view of the headstones. He was worried that his shadow would interfere with the validity of any supernatural phenomenon caught on tape. Donald had been a member of O.P.I. for about two years now. His passion for the research of the paranormal has been with him since he has been a little child. Now he did it with an organization set on discovering the facts behind a multitude of mystic phenomenon. They were his only friends. They would be impressed with him if he could capture a picture of a spirit, after all its been done plenty of times before. He dropped to one knee to get a better picture of the inscription on what was by far the largest headstone. He slid two fingers to the ground to balance his weight as he got set for the photo. “Damn this shadow”. He mumbled to himself as he stood back up. Donald’s face grew perplexed. His fingers had slipped into the ground now a good inch. How odd he thought that his fingers could penetrate the earth here. Not more than seven miles away at his house, the soil has been frozen solid for over three weeks now. Using his flashlight as a guide, he peered towards the pine trees. A slight coating of snow now lay across the bedding of needles. He arose with the sound of sloshing as his boots parted the mud beneath his feet. He walked over to the nearest row of trees and prodded his foot against the ground. The ground was frozen solid. He smirked with pleasure as he made his way back to his bag. Grasping the wooden handle, he uncovered a large shovel. He laid its tip to the ground and placed his foot above its head. The shovel slipped into the ground with minimum effort. His mind now raced with thoughts of riches and wealth. If the legends were true, the colonial gold had been buried here in the resting-place of Vincent Mapleton. In Click here to read the rest of this story (85 more lines)
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