Day 296 – Specter – Short Story

The water drips from the caverns roof, splashing quietly in a puddle beneath, circular ripples glitter out and dissipate until the next drop slashes down. A light flickers through the cavern as two silhouetted figures make their way through it.

“How many years do you think it’s been since someone’s been down this far?” One of them asks.

“Thirty years, ever since the killings no ones been anywhere near this place, too many bad vibes, and the fact he was never caught,” the other replies.

“That’s what I don’t get Francis, you say it was a he, but why couldn’t it have been a she?”

Francis laughs, “Really? You’re going to start on that one again Riley?”

“No one ever saw who did it, no one survived, it could have been a she, Gloria Fitzpatrick went missing around the same time, and she had motive.”

“God, seriously? Fitzpatrick was a bona fide but case, but she wasn’t capable of the brutality that took place down here, sure, the mine was stole out from under her, and the workers supported Cranshaw instead of her, but, she still couldn’t have done all this. It was Hancock, the pit-boss, he had more motivation that Fitzpatrick, and his body never showed up either.”

“That’s where your wrong, there’s documentation that Hancock’s body was amoung the dead, but he was incorrectly identified after the first autopsy, Danny MacFagden was incorrectly listed amoung the dead, but six years later here turned up in a bar three states away, remember, they originally tried to pin the murders on him, but he proved that he was nowhere near the mines at the time. When they dug up the grave to identify the body through D.N.A. It was gone.”

“That doesn’t mean it was Hancock, you’re just grabbing at straws, anyway, you’d say that because he was your grandfather.”

“That’s got nothing to do with it and you know it. You’re holding onto the woman killing them all shite, it’s like you’re obsessed, why can’t you just entertain the thought that maybe Fitzpatrick just ran off a short pier somewhere?”

“Because, she swore they’d all pay, as would their offspring, and theirs after that.”

“Well, hello, my Mum and Dad are very much alive, so I’d say her threat was as empty as the possibility of her killing everyone in the mine.”

“Are you sure? When did you last talk to them?” Riley asks.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I think you know,” she says, Francis slowly turns, the blade in her hand glimmers in the light.

Published by

Matthew Tonks

People are surprised when reading Matthew’s stories that he’s a sane forty something year old, happily married, father of one, employed full time and dream of dark disturbing things that any sane person would never even contemplate thinking of. But it's true, he’s toyed with writing for most of his adult life, but has always found the peg a writer must fit into is not the shape he wished to be. His writing can be described as lamenting, long, concussive (yes it smashes you in the head), compulsive, and stuffed with rhythmic communication and violence, let’s not forget the violence. His own opinion on his writing is this, “You see, I don't just want the words to seep into your mind, but into your soul, showing you images of blood and beauty through, volatile language, violence, sex, love and sin. My muse takes different shapes, and every now and then you can see her shining her wicked smile in some of my stories, tempting you with her promises, but ripping your heart out instead.” So have a look, and take a seat in my wayward ride, as you join me while I purge through, this twisted road of madness.

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