Category: Second Triad

Down That Road

On September 1, 2019

Word Count: 5,186

Over my long years with the firm, I accumulated such a vast amount of vacation time I was going to lose two and a half weeks if I did not take it now. Things were not well at the office, the current economy taking its toll on everyone, so I insisted I stay on until a better date. When my supervisor told me to use it or lose it, I decided to take my pick-up truck to do some driving across the country.

The next morning, I loaded my cooler, made sure I had what I needed in my tool box, and packed up a suitcase full of clothes and toiletries. I really had no idea where I would go, but since I lived so close to the east coast, I decided to drive west.

In a few hours I passed through Atlanta and got on interstate highway 20. That was more or less a straight shot through Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana. I never before traveled through any of the states in the Deep South, and I was rather excited to see it.

I made some stops to enjoy the unfamiliar scenery and take in the local culture. There were vast amounts of pine trees from the west side of Alabama, which created a rather dense forest, and almost all of the way through Mississippi.

Crossing over the Great River from Mississippi, I entered the vast, monotonous landscape of the steamy state of Louisiana. A long highway stretched in front of me; a straight lengthy path expanding off far into the horizon. Miles upon miles of vibrant green crops surround both sides of the highway for as far as the eye could see.

I assumed the endless rows of crops must be cotton. I had no idea what a cotton plant looked like; I only ever saw it in ball or swab form. The large steel grated rail cars covered in white puffs are what clued me in. I knew of no other type of crop that produced such a thing.

It felt like I was driving forever without seeing any sign of another car on the road. I knew I should have stuck with the interstate highway, but I thought the smaller state highways could provide me with some nice scenery. I was sorely wrong about that.

Two hours after crossing the border, the rows of cotton plants ended and gave way to massive flats packed with countless small ponds. Each pond could not be more than one or two hundred square feet in area. They were filled with some sort of grass and packed edge to edge going on for as far as I could see.

It was only ten o’clock in the morning, but the heat pounded down upon my black truck without mercy. The air conditioner was cranked up as far as it would go. Normally the thing had me freezing my ass off at that setting, but in this heavy Louisiana heat with the sun beating down on my black truck, it was just enough to keep the cab at a bearable temperature.

A large obscuring haze formed from the steadily increasing humidity. The heat rose up from the concrete roadway in obviously visible waves, pulling the moisture along the highway back up into the air. Because of those thousand upon thousands of grassy ponds, the air became so thick with humidity there appeared to be a fog from a distance.

That ungodly long tar-patched stretched in front of me, relatively free from the haze, taunting me with hopes I would find something more than farmland. Turning around became a consideration, but I thought I could see a gas station off one of the small side roads. As the building drew closer, I was relieved it was not some sort of mirage generated by the tortuous heat.

It took me much longer to get there than I thought. Without even realizing it, I was driving over ninety miles per hour; the ponds alongside me flew by with a blur. Twenty minutes elapsed before I reached the turnoff to the road on which the station sat.

It looked like it was once a large truck stop, but now it was in serious ill repair. Cracked, crumbled blacktop and densely choked weeds replaced what was once a smoothly paved surface. The old parking lot looked like an overused minefield. To call it a parking lot would be generous. It was really more of a bunch of dirt-filled potholes surrounded by the occasional patch of blacktop.

I climbed out of the truck as a large cloud of dry red dirt my truck stirred up rolled over me. I made the mistake of breathing in while the cloud still engulfed me. The fine dust choked my lungs and stung my throat. The red-orange cloud quickly blew past me, but I coughed and my nose ran for a minute or so afterward.

Withdrawing my wallet, I stepped around the truck to the pump. To my dismay, the pumps did not have a credit card slot. I was not even sure the pumps worked. These were of the sort installed in the 1970’s. The grimy white paint curled and chipped off the rusty metal gas dispensers.

The building did not look much better than the parking lot. It appeared to be an old diner turned into a garage. Paint covered the windows from the inside and one was covered from the outside with sheets of plywood. A stack of car hoods taller than me stood amongst a litter of other parts scattered around. I knew this is very cliché, but I actually heard banjo music coming from the one open door.

Were it not for the fact my truck was almost completely out of gas, I would climb back in the cab and leave this unnerving place. A young man, of what age I could not tell, stepped out from the door and onto a small porch-like area at the entrance.

Something in his demeanor and his stereotype Louisiana redneck appearance made me extremely uncomfortable. He was dirty, dressed only in jeans, an old rock and roll t-shirt, and a faded John Deer hat.

“Sumpin I cun do fer ya mista,” the boy said with an incredibly thick accent. I assumed he must be eighteen or nineteen judging by his voice. Because of his sunbaked skin and his wiry black scruff on his face he appeared to be much older.

“Ay, mista,” he called out louder than before. He sounded either agitated or rude. It was difficult to determine the underlying tone of his voice with it camouflaged under that heavy accent.

I realized I was standing there like a fool, gawking at the unfamiliar scene. I thought places like this only existed in movies. I apologized to the young man, who wore no socks or shoes. His feet were covered in dry dirt. His T-shirt was sleeveless and his jeans were worn with holes. I did not think I could come up with a better stereotype than this. I took my credit card out of my wallet and informed the grungy country boy I needed some gasoline.

“If yu cun pu at thar plastic back’n yer wallet’n pull ‘at sum cash, I sell ya some,” he replied with a snarky sarcasm.

I fumbled with my wallet, nearly dropping it to the ground. A vague sense of relief passed through me when I saw I had sixty dollars in it. I so rarely use paper money anymore, I was not really sure if I had any on my possession.

“Yea, uh, yea,” I stammered. The boy rolled his head and used the momentum to roll his back off of the wall, and then walked inside. Reluctantly, I followed.

Inside a radio played bluegrass music, which explained the banjo music I heard. I gave the filthy young man the cash from my wallet and told him to put it on premium.

“Mista’, we got two kina gas. We got gas ‘n we aint got gas. Whichun’ you wawnt?” I had to admit, I was somewhat taken aback by the young man’s boldness. Possibly normal in this region, his demeanor made me feel extremely uncomfortable. His matted blond hair showed in patches from underneath his worn ball-cap. A chunk of tobacco bulged behind his left cheek and he continuously rolled a wooden toothpick from one corner of his lips to the other. His eyes looked sunken and dark. The dark brown of his eyes seemed to convey a sense of infinite depth. I could not explain it, but he scared the hell out of me.

I inquired as to the nature of the endless acres of small ponds.

“Dem’z rice paddies,” he said.

“Rice pattys?” I asked rather stupidly. I never heard of a rice patty.

“Ya know, fer grown rice in,” he said with a patronizing sarcasm.

I thanked him in words but not in tone. Walking back out to the pump, I put my sixty dollars of gas in the tank and began to leave. I wanted out of there as fast as I could. It may only be culture shock, but there was something about this whole place that gave me the shudders. Despite the incredible heat, chill bumps ran down my arms.

As I pumped the gas, I stayed facing my truck. Even so, I could feel the boy’s sharp stare boring into the back of my head. When I turned around to put away the nozzle, I found him leaning against the same wall as before with his back and one foot propped against the mostly exposed wood. It felt like he was looking at me like he was sizing up a game animal.

“Hey, you uh, you know how I can get back to the interstate?” I asked the dirt coated boy with discernible apprehension.

A long pause and an eerie, uncomfortable silence followed. It was as if the boy acted like he was trying to decide if he was going to help me or not. It did not take me long before I grew weary of the blatantly rude wait. I was about to ask him again when he finally spoke.

“Get back on at dared’n go right,” he began. I saw a dark brown stain on the matchstick in his mouth caused by the mass of tobacco squirreled in his cheek. “Ater jes tirty miles yer gonna turn right on da dirt road marked ‘leven sitty fow. At’ll take ya to highway twenne.”

Again I thanked the unnerving young man. Just before I climbed back into the cab of my truck the boy called out more.

“You gonna pass a white-top a’fore ya git to da dirt highway. You aint gonna wanna go dat way,” he instructed me. “It’ll take ya to I-20 z’well, but ‘member, you aint gonna wanna go down dat road.”

I nodded my head and shut the door. I was so eager to get off of that long state highway, but now I found it a welcoming sight. The long lonely stretch was a welcomed relief from that unnerving young man. I drove a little over seven miles and saw a sign for I-20. The boy told me not to go this way, but I believed he was only giving me a hard time. I saw no reason in driving another twenty something miles to get to a dirt road that may not exist when this one would take me where I was going.

It was an oddly paved road. It had a blacktop base, but it was covered with white marble rocks embedded in the black tar. I did think it awfully strange the rocks managed to stay so chalky white. It seemed like they would be dark and scuffed with tar and rubber. I dismissed the boy’s instructions and turned to the right. I did not see why I should drive to a dirt road when I could take a paved one. That boy probably saw me as a target for enjoyment and thought it was funny trying to get me lost.

Immediately after my turn onto the snow-white street, I saw a sign saying I-20 was only thirty miles away. That kid wanted me to drive twenty miles to get to a dirt road, a dirt road that might not even exist. Right after the reflective green direction sign was another much older sign. Two tall stone obelisks covered in moss and lichens held between them an aged wooden sign. The paint was peeling away, and I could barely make out the words “Moon Lake.”

Not too far ahead I saw a mass of trees comprising the edge of a dense forest. When I entered the shade of the trees, it was a great relief from the direct sun of the farmlands. My air conditioner instantly began cooling the cab of my truck.

It was not like any kind of forest with which I was accustomed. The floor of the cypress forest was no more than a shallow lake of water, and cypress knees of various sizes surrounded each tree. Fallen logs lay scattered about making convenient gathering spots for congregations of hundreds of turtles. Some appeared stacked to six and seven high atop each other.

Spanish moss choked the tops of the trees to the point very little light made its way to the road. Every now and then I saw a spot of land pass me on one side or the other, but for the most part there was nothing but water and vegetation.

The rapidly passing trees scattered with patches of Spanish moss produced a mild mesmerizing effect. I was momentarily captivated by this unfamiliar scenery, and when I pulled my gaze back to the road, I found myself quickly approaching a large alligator lying stretched across my path. The reptile stretched from one shoulder of the road to the other. It was twenty feet in length if it was a foot. In a panic, I hit the brakes with all of my strength. The wheels of my heavy-duty truck locked and I went into a sideways slide. I jerked my steering wheel the other way in a desperate attempt to straighten my progression, which only served to send me into an uncontrolable spin. I drove right over the narrow shoulder of the levee road and into the dark, murky water.

I cannot say how long I was out, but when I came to, the sun was gone. A roar of noise – crickets, frogs, birds and other nocturnal creatures – flooded my ears. Suddenly I became aware of sharp, stabbing pains coursing through my head.

My truck rested at a forty-five-degree angle, and the grill wrapped half way around a cypress tree. I tried to rub my eyes, but an intense burst of pain from a broken nose filled my eyes with sparks. It took me several minutes before I could again open my eyes. I realized my left eye was almost swollen shut and I could feel blood dripping out of my nose. I suppose I was fortunate the crash did not kill me.

Opening the driver’s side door, I tried to climb out of the truck and back to that ghostly road. I almost passed out from the pain. My right leg was broken in at least one place.

Judging by the pain in my chest, I must have cracked several ribs. I screamed in pain as loud as my injuries let me scream, which was not much at all. At first I thought I heard my voice echoing off of the water, but then I realized someone was calling out.

“Ey, inney un in dare,” the voice shouted.

All I could manage was one loud ‘yes.’ A few seconds later I could hear the splashing of oars in the water. The man calling to me was in a boat. I would prefer he came from the road, but I would take any help I could get.

“Old on air,” the voice echoed through the swamp. “Gonna be dare innamunnut.”

The truck budged just a little as the aluminum boat bumped against it with an audible metallic scraping sending shivers coursing through my spine. It was fortunate this man happened to be around when I needed him. My hopes were dashed a bit when the aged, deeply tanned man looked in through my shattered windshield. I could not tell the man’s race. He must have a sorted mix of ancestry, as he carried an unusual mix of facial features.

There was something in his eyes that frightened me. It would be better to say there was something not in his eyes frightening me. His hazel-brown eyes gave me the impression of a voodoo zombie. The kerosene lamp in his hand cast a shadow over his face, making him look like he wore a Halloween costume.

“Haw ya goin’n git yawself aw turnt up round dis heya tree?” the old man asked me with a tone of concern. Judging by the look on his face, I did not think he really cared anything about me at all. His mouth said one thing, but his facial and body expressions said something else.

Moths and other insects of all sizes swarmed around his old kerosene lamp, many of the creatures falling into the shattered windows of my truck. I felt the pests crawling on my face and arms, some gnawing and biting my fresh wounds. I built up the strength and asked the old man to move the lantern away from me. I was in enough pain without insects feasting on me.

The old swamp man hung the lantern on something; I assumed it was a tree branch. The direct light was out of my eyes, but the insects continued to fall into and fluttered about the cab. The lantern now cast a shadow, giving the man a strange ominous look. He removed his torn hat, revealing a head of greasy gray-black hair, and hung it on my side view mirror. I shuddered over the thought of him touching me, but what other option did I have?

“Es git ya atta dare,” he said, his voice betraying his wrinkly old body. He sounded like a healthy young man in his prime.

I went numb when he put his cold hands under my arms. Sparks filled my vision as darkness overtook me and I again lost consciousness. When I came to I was resting on the bottom of the aluminum boat. Underneath me I could feel the cushioning of what I hoped were life jackets.

The lantern hung from a pole at the front of his boat. Each time the man paddled the boat, the lantern swung side to side. The shadows of the trees moved with each sway, creating the illusion of creatures dancing in the forested darkness.

I rose my head up as much as I could in an attempt to try and get a good look at my rescuer. He was standing in the back of the boat. Rather than using an oar to slowly propel the boat, he was using a long wooden staff to push along the bottom of the swamp water. The cypress trees crowded the water, making it effectively impossible to work with a set of paddles.

“Don ya be worrin naw,” the old man said as he stood over me. “We gonna git ya all took care’v.”

I could feel a stinging sensation all over my body. It felt like someone sticking me with pins. I tried to wipe away the bugs piercing into my flesh, feasting on my blood, but every time I did they only moved somewhere else.

“Dem skeeters eatin ya up?” he said with a cackle. “Day shaw do like at sidde blood. Ole Justin been living out here so long, skeeters done stopped feastin on me no moe. Day lookin foe’a fresh meal.”

Mosquitos? I’ve never felt such painful bites from mosquitos before. These things must have been huge. With the light of the lantern shining in my eyes, I could not see the individual insects biting me. Swarms of insects circled around the lantern, most of them probably being mosquitos. I almost lost my bowels when something large swooped down at me, took a sharp turn, and darted in another direction.

“Careful dare,” the old man, who introduced himself as Justin, warned me.”Dem bat aint wont you nun. Day her fur dem bugs. Don worry yer body nun. Naw. Dem bats hep keepin da skeeters down. Show is plenty nuff for dem ta eat, no?”

I turned my head to the side so I was able to look over the water. A light fog settled over the surface, and it seemed to emit a faint green glow from within. ‘Swamp gas,’ I thought. I heard of swamp gas creating its own light, but I thought that was only a tale. I did not think it was something that happened outside of movies and television.

Three lanterns broke through the fog up ahead. As we drew closer, it became much easier to make out a small shack. It was built among the trees about four feet above the water. Underneath the crude structure were several dozen oil drums keeping the home a constant height above the water.

Two lanterns hung from the corners of the shanty, and the other one dangled from a tree. As we got closer, I could see an old woman. She was fishing off her deck using a bamboo cane pole. Bugs gathered around the lantern on the tree, many of them falling into the water. I could hear the fish feasting on the insects. With her bamboo cane pole, the aged lady yanked one fish out of the water after another. With amazing proficiency, the woman removed the fish from the hook, dropped it into a bucket, and re-baited her line. She paid us no attention. She never made any attempt at a greeting, not even to my rescuer.

We passed alongside the crude but sturdy structure, and I saw two other individuals standing on that porch floor above the water. One of them was a man and the other a woman, so I assumed they must be a couple. Their own boat bumping gently against the pier jutting out from the house, the man and woman appeared to take a great interest in us. The woman was probably an attractive person, but her hair was unkempt and her clothes worn and dirty.

After we passed this shanty, several more of the swamp homes came into view. I looked around the boat as much as I could and saw what appeared to be a whole town built among the trees. The fog retreated from the groups of dwellings. I could still see the haze, emitting its strange green glow, outside this perimeter, but it stayed away from the buildings.

I became aware the soft splashing of Justin’s pole sounded strange. Initially, I thought it must be an echo of his staff in the water. My stomach churned with fear when I realized there were a multitude of other boats, pushing their way through the tightly compacted trees.

It appeared these trees, cypress knees and fallen logs made some form of a natural maze. Anyone not familiar with the area could get lost here for weeks.

“Why are they following us?” I managed to ask, despite the pain in my face and my dry, parched throat.

“Day’s cumin t Pawpaw’s wid es,” the sunken eyed man said very casually. I tried to ask why, but my dry throat and swelling tongue would not allow it.

“Yun, Ole Justin aint even reconed ya’d be tirsty,” he said in a compassionate tone. Again, his face showed more contempt than compassion.

Justin laid his pole along the length of the boat. Kneeling down, he retrieved something resembling a thermos.

Handing the receptacle to me, he said, “Yeya, dis water’d be yo need naw.” I took the strange thermos from him and examined it for a minute or so. The metal was strange, appearing more like glass filled with flakes of gold and platinum, and covered in inscriptions that reminded me of hieroglyphs.

“Na aint be worring,” he explained to me. “Day be un’a dem coal filters ta make da wata fresh.”

Reluctantly I took a sip from the container. I expected the water to be very warm, but it was actually quite cold. I guess something like this came in very handy in the putrid swamp.

I expected the swamp to reek of the smell of death, but the aroma in the air was actually quite pleasant. The cypress reminded me of the scent of cedar, just a little. It was then I noticed there were not only more poles propelling boats through the water, it appeared each of them brandished a lantern of their own.

All of the individual lights hanging from poles, swaying with the movement of the boats gave the appearance of horrible creatures jumping from tree to tree. The green mist grew thicker and brighter, but seemed to leave a clear path for the boats.

“Where?” I asked through the pain causing my head to throb.

“We takin’ ya ta Pawpaw’s. He gonna git ya awl fixed up.” He said, never taking his eyes off our course.

“The others?” I choked.

“Day jes gat big noses. Mose’a dem ain’t never seent no city feller a’fore.”

That gave me very little solace. Apparently, I was a spectacle to these swamp folk. The fear I felt earlier now escelated into terror. We passed yet more of the swamp homes, and I began to feel as I would never leave, not on my own. Shortly after, I could hear even more boats adding to this sojourn.

I felt Justin pull the front of the boat onto land. I could not wait to get to land earlier, but now I wished we could go back into the water. Several dozen boats, the boats following us, also pulled themselves to shore. Two younger men approached Justin’s boat.

“C’mon, ets give Ole Justin sum ‘elp,” one of them said to him.

I thought they might be Justin’s children or grand-children. The two were both young and healthy and shared the same sort of odd facial traits as Justin. I thought I would pass out from the pain when the two men lifted me from the boat. The other people from the procession of aluminum boats carried lanterns and torches. The ones I could see also showed the strange, mixed racial faces, but none of them really looked like the others. I did not know how to explain it. The motley group of swamp-folk filled me with a chilling dismay.

The procession led in between two large, gently-sloping mounds. When the two men carried me past those mounds, I could see more of the mounds surrounding us. It looked like there were thirteen of them in total. Lanterns burned on hangers and torches burned on poles. Despite the multitude of small light sources, it looked like there was too much light. The green fog surrounding this area glowed brighter than ever.

The two men gently carried me to the center of the area. They carefully laid me on top of a stack of reed mats. I was surprised over how comfortable the crude mats were. The men stepped back when a rattle sounded. I lifted my head enough to see who was approaching.

I expected the approaching man to appear something like a Native American medicine man. For the most part he dressed normally, normally that is for one of these locals. The hair on his head grew in patches only, and the matted tufts were three feet in length. His face looked ancient. He easily looked a hundred years old.

Several aspects of his attire stood out in comparison to his filthy clothes and dirty skin. In his left hand he held a rattle, fashioned from a gourd. In the other hand he carried a lantern made from a human skull. The light shining through the empty eyes, mouth and nose hole gave me the impression of looking into hell. Woven snake skins covered the length of the rod atop which the skull rested.

Around his neck and at the bottom of a hemp string hung a strange amulet. It appeared to be forged from the same metal as the water dispenser Old Justin gave me. When he reached me, the shaman shook that horrid rattle and waved the ghastly candle holder over me. All the while, the man chanted in a language I did not recognize.

He jammed the shaft holding the skull into the ground, never ceasing his chanting. The others that followed Justin and I to this unholy place all began to chant in unison.

“Justin dun tol ya, Pawpaw gonna git ya took care of,” the man said in an ancient, scratchy voice.

I felt people grabbing me by the wrists and ankles, pulling my limbs tight. The pain was excruciating. My broken leg burned with intense agony and my broken ribs made it nearly impossible for me to breathe. I wished the pain would allow me to go unconscious, but as intense as it was, I was perfectly aware.

Yellowish smoke poured out of the mouth of the mounted skull, producing the putrid, stinging odor of burning sulfur. Something cold clasped around my ankles and wrists. It took me a moment to realize I was shackled to the ground.

Absolute panic and horror flowed through my body as the strange, pagan ceremony continued. More and more people crowded into the circle of mounds, chanting in sync with all the others.

The voodoo priest raised his hands and the chanting ended.

“Ole Justin bring us a freshen,” the patchy bald-headed man called out to the massive crowd. Justin, the man who rescued me from dying in my truck, stepped forward and joined Pawpaw.

“Da ona’s yo’s.” Pawpaw said as Justin knelt down beside me and smiled.

“Why did you save me?” I plead through my burning throat.

“Taint no need in wastin dat life dare’n dat truck. You gonna see dat Ole Justin not so ole anymo.”

With those words, my rescuer plunged his hand into my chest. He broke no bone nor tore any skin. His hand simply passed inside of me. I screamed in unholy agony as I felt Justin literally grab onto my soul. The feeling was indescribable. It transcended any earthly fear or pain.

Justin grew younger and took on facial features to resemble some of mine as he grabbed the very life inside me to give immortality to his own.

The man tugged at my soul and I saw the darkness coming. Before me lay no afterlife, I did not die, I was consumed. The heaven I was promised did not greet me, only the emptiness of oblivion.

Why didn’t I listen to that boy? I never should have gone down that road.

A Great Motivator

By Mychal Wilson

On August 31, 2019

In Aetet 1, Second Triad

Word Count: 4,616

For untold generations, caring and worrisome parents attempted to control the behavior of their small children by employing the use of frightening folktales and macabre nursery rhymes.

Fear of the green-skinned, wart-covered wicked hag living in the dark and unknown regions of the forest the parents employed to prevent children from curiously straying too far from the home. Terror of the twisted and fearsome man-eating troll making residence under the concealment of a bridge thwarted any fleeting thought children may consider when playing too near the water. Fear of the cannibalistic old hermit with the aged leathery skin living in seclusion prevented children from approaching the homes of strangers. Fear is a great motivator.

When it came to employing the intense trepidation created by the unknown, my parents acted in a manner no different from anyone else in this untamed region of the country. Mother and Father applied the terrifying legends to deeply instill the dread necessary to frighten my brother and me from venturing into the peril posed by the steep craggy mountains. Broken and sheer cliffs, sharp jagged rocks, and unpredictable landslides presented very real hazards to smaller children, or anyone else ready to tempt fate for that matter. Under this pretense, my folks justified the frightening lies they regaled to us on a nightly basis.

The images crated by one disturbing tale in particular remained clearly burned into the canvas of my imagination. Deep in the stony mountains, in a sacred and unknown valley, existed the virtually inaccessible entrance to a timeless mine. Indian legend talked about it only in hushed whispers. It was said a people predating the Redskins burrowed a shaft hundreds of yards into the bowels of the mountain. I did not know how long the natives lived here before my grandparents arrived in hopes of a better life, but I assumed it must be at least a dozen generations.

One story said the miners dug too deep in search of minerals, and inadvertently awoke an unholy abomination not of this world. Another version of the tale said the strange people freed the beast intentionally. God imprisoned the inhuman demon during the creation of the world, where it would remain until the Day of Judgment. A being of the netherworld, the timeless devil possessed no tolerance to the beautiful and warming rays of the life giving sun.

On moonless nights, when the sky was at its darkest, the revolting atrocity ventured from the safety of the mine. Stalking the twisted trees of the steep mountains, the unholy thing searched for the heaven bound souls of good people to feed its damned existence.

When my grandparents arrived in the area with the first settlers, the Indians warned them and told them the legends of the inhuman spirit. Among others, my grandparents ended their pilgrimage at the foothills of the majestic mountains, but others dreamed of a promised land, and continued their fateful journey. Ignoring the myths of the savages, several families proceeded into the snow-capped peaks. No one ever heard from them again.

The heavy wind-blown snow blanketed the mountains and filled the valleys before the September month yet came to an end. The men of the foothills resolved to locate the missing settlers, but inclement weather did not allow this to commence until the thaw next spring began.

Fourteen skilled hunters collected their gear and embarked on a mission to find the missing settlers. They approached many redskins as potential guides, but none of the natives dared venture into these forbidden lands. Arrogant in their skills, the fourteen men set out, many of them with dogs, to discover the fate of the missing settlers.

Eight long weeks passed without one sign of the hunters. A man farming the area at the far edge of the forest, while working his crops, caught sight of something squirming in the undergrowth. The thing he saw haunted him for the remainder of his days.

A single hunter returned from the search party. Bones in both of his legs were broken, and his skin was covered in bruises and lesions. This is not what caused the farmer such repugnance. Something gouged out the hunter’s eyes, and it appeared to have been the hunter.

“They wanted me to hear, they wanted me to hear,” the blinded hunter whimpered repeatedly. No other words ever passed from the man’s quivering lips again. He died screaming those words three days later.

Passed down through the spoken word, the terrifying folktales evolved a tiny bit each time someone recited them. The stories my father told me were not quite the same stories my grandfather told him. Oral revisions grew to incorporate the existence of goblins and demon-spawn making the high mountains their home. Many nights, images of these hellish creatures, images conjured by the creativity of my own imagination, dominated my thoughts when I went to bed.

During my toddler years, I imagined these creatures lurking in every dark crevice of the forested mountains. I cried and pleaded for my life when my parents forced me beyond the clearing around our house. I knew some unholy terror stalked me, ready to consume my flesh and soul at any moment. Simple trips to the homes of other families felt like the last I would ever take.

As the years passed, my fear of such encounters continually decreased. The longer nothing happened, the more I became sure nothing hid out there waiting to rend my flesh apart. Over time my fears subsided until I eventually thought only of the stories as mere fairy-tales. My belief of the boogeyman vanished completely by the time I reached my 12th birthday.

My mother bore many children, but not all of them lived to see their first year. By the time of my 12th year, she gave me three surviving brothers and four surviving sisters. I listened on with a certain amusement as my parents told them the same stories they once used to terrify me. I never considered the macabre stories to be lies, because they were told for our own good. Small children simply held too much curiosity within them, so I went along with Mother and Father by pretending to believe the tall tales. Through lending my credibility to the horrific tales, I helped my parents reinforce the fear in they cultivated into the young ones.

As my earlier years crept away and curiosity overran any lingering fear, I pressed my way progressively deeper into the rocky forest that once terrorized me so. Caring for seven young children, tending the farm and livestock, and preparing meals consumed most every bit of my parents’ attention. Other than seeing to me completing my chores, my parents did not have any spare time to afford me. My progressively longer excursions went unnoticed.

The land which my grandfather claimed when he moved into the area was one of the family lands deepest in the rolling foothills. Beyond the edge of our now deeded land, the terrain changed drastically. The smooth hills became replaced by steep slopes covered by sharp rocks and loose dirt. Adults wanted to use this fear to prevent young men like me from exploring these dangerous places.

My own personal explorations took me meandering through the foothills surrounding the loose community, but despite my disbelief in tall tales, I still never dared to climb up into the unknown mountains. I called myself brave for adventuring as much as I did. Still, I could not find the will to work my way upward into the craggy slopes. That was at least until early in the summer of my 13th year.

Eventually reason conquered fear, and I resolved to have a look in the steep and foreboding mountains to find what secrets it held. All throughout the previous winter, I used rationalization to resolve my lingering fears until they no longer stood in my way. None of the children from the nearby homes ever saw the monsters keeping guard over the rocky range, and with a little practice, I fully convinced myself I never would.

I waited one morning until after my father left to tend to the farms at the lower hills with the other men, and mother and my siblings went to the spring fed creek to wash our clothes and haul a few loads of water for the house. Once there was no one around to see me, I slipped back into the house for a few provisions. From the pantry I liberated a hunk of stale bread and a skin full of water. On my way back out the front door, something in my parents’ small bedroom caught my eye.

The light from the kitchen candles gleamed off of the collection of guns against the far wall. Thinking more of wild animals than supernatural monsters, I decided to load one of my father’s muskets and tucked it in the scratchy hemp rope that was my belt.

Satisfied I had everything I needed, I set off to the north to explore the legendary mountains. I made great time for the first two hours, but the slopes grew steeper and I slowed down to exercise more caution. If I slipped and broke a leg, I do not know I should expect anyone would come looking for me. No one knew I was here, and I think the adults were just as afraid of the stories they told as the children they tried to scare.

Eventually the large stone outcroppings gave way a slope covered in boulders and exposed dirt. All my exploratory excursions up to now honed my skills to travel through different and difficult terrain. Even so, I took care in these parts. The bluff was all too ready to give way beneath me, and I did not want to end up entombed under tons of earth. Grass, leaves, and the occasional shrub were all that held the surface of the slope in place.

Giant stones rose from the mountains on either side of the obstacle. All I needed to do was make it across and I should be fine. I laid flat against the surface and slowly begin to inch sideways. If I reduced the pressure I put on any one spot, I should make it across without causing a landslide.

I nearly panicked and almost let loose of my handholds when a stone under my left foot pushed free, echoing as it careened down the steep slope. If I was not the explorer I was, I may have let go and followed the loose stone to the bottom of the deep valley floor. I could see how treacherous this place would be to those not adapt at traveling such terrain. If the story about the missing hunters were true, perhaps they laid covered at the bottom of this mountain.

With the sun at my back, I could not determine the approximate time of day. I tried to make the judgment by the shadows cast by the small rocks and grass, but all I could do was create a very rough estimate. I never learned to tell time in such a way. Father only taught me to determine the time of day by examining the sun’s position. I wish I knew how to use a sundial. That skill would probably come in very handy at this point.

I was unable to see the slope curved as it worked across the mountain side until the initial edge of the bluff slowly pulled out of view. I greatly misjudged the distance from one side to the other. I knew I would not reach the other side and back before the hour grew too late. I hung in place and pondered over the possibilities for a few minutes. Finally I decided I had better turn back and head for the warmth and security of home.

First only with a small shift, and then a deafening rumble, the ground around me began to break apart. My heart lurched and I nearly screamed when the soil beneath my feet gave way. I held tightly to a mass of roots as I listened to the dislodge dirt deafeningly roar its way down the steep hill and into the valley below.

The noise of the crashing rocks and rolling dirt echoed between the valley walls for several minutes, but to me it felt more like hours. The landslide produced such a roaring resonance against the steep mountainsides, I worried my parents would hear it as far down as the foothills.

The deep rumbling boom produced as the dirt and rock careened into the bottom of the dark valley was one of the least of my worries. When the soil dislodged and swept nearly any signs of vegetation with it, I lost any sort of footholds that may have existed. Tree roots protruded from the ground here and there. That was my only hope of avoiding rolling down the hill and breaking every bone in my body. I thought I could make it across using the handholds available, but unfortunately there were no such convenient means of going back the way I came. The collapse left me with only one choice. I had to go forward and try to find another route to take me back home.

Several times I almost lost my grip and slipped. My hands were strong from years of heavy chores, and I managed to keep a tight grip on the earth covered roots. The tree roots bore deep into the rocky mountainside. The incredible force of the ever expanding system of roots broke the solid rock into loose sections, and stones fell loose as I pulled myself from one to the other. Once, the stone dislodged and the root on which I desperately clung pulled four feet out of the ground. I held on, but the short drop jolted hard on my shoulder.

I did not flinch when death came up to stare in my face. My swift reactions saved my life more than once. By the time I reached the safety of the other side, my arms were exhausted and I was quite sure I seriously injured my shoulder. Callouses protected my hands, but scratches covered the skin of my arms. I did not know how I would explain this to my mother and father.

My primary concern was to find a way back around the majestic snow-capped mountains and return to the warm safety of home. Climbing up the mountain was out of the question. The slope was too steep, and I had not sufficient clothing to protect me from the cold, tearing winds. As I tried to conceive of a route leading back the way I came, I worked on excuses in the back of my thoughts.

I considered the possibility of climbing up or down a short distance to seek a way back across. I ruled these options out quickly as the smooth run extended as far as I can see in any direction. As large as this mountain was, it could take me several days to walk around. I could go hungry if I took that path home. I did have the musket in case I had to hunt something to eat.

Mama and Daddy would realize something was wrong when I did not show up for supper tonight. Even so, no one would be able to look for me in this area until morning. This part of the mountain was much too dangerous to navigate at night. I surely did not want anyone else getting hurt because I went where I was told not to go. Unless I figured a way to cross back to the other side of the landslide, I knew I would at least be here until dinnertime tomorrow.

As the sun began to set for the night, the blowing winds calmed but the air quickly grew cold. I must have climbed higher than I thought I did because it would not be so chilly at home. Since it was such a nice morning when I left, I did not bother to bring with me a coat. I did not expect to become trapped, and therefore thought I would have no need of it.

I did have the forethought to bring a box of matches with me, so I began to look for a good place to build a fire. The steep slope did not offer me a wide variety of choices. I needed a flat surface upon which to build a campfire. The last thing I needed to do while trapped on this dangerous spot was to set the brush and trees ablaze.

Vigorously rubbing my hands over the surface of my arms to produce some warmth, I made my way deeper into the mountains. With the landslide long ago out of sight, I finally found a level stone slab sufficiently large enough to hold me and a fire. I kicked and stomped on the spot to make sure I would not end up riding it down the hill, and then I set up a small ring of stones.

It took very little time at all to gather some stones, wood and kindling, and I had a fire pit filled in no time. After piling enough surplus wood to last me through the night, I withdrew the box of matches for my britches. My hope waned when I saw only five matches inside. I grabbed the box in a hurry this morning, and I never bothered to see how many matchsticks it contained.

I had to make each of these matches count, so I stuffed the stack of wood with a couple fistfuls of dry leaves. Holding the box up to the pile, I struck the first match, but a sudden rush of air extinguished the small flame before it ever had a chance to catch. The brisk breeze vanished just as fast as it appeared.

I use some of the dry dead leaves to cup the match and, holding the wooden sticks still, slid the box along the tip. Again a breath of wind blew over me, but this time the small flame caught the crunchy leaves on fire. I fanned it until it developed a small mass of hot coals, and then allowed it to spread. I expected a third wind to blow out the growing fire, but none ever came. I was relieved to finally have a campfire burning.

My front side stayed nice and warm, but the cold air covered my back with chills. The fluidic dancing flames mesmerize me and I stared at them blankly. The sounds of the nocturnal insects, birds, and reptiles filled the air with the resonance of nature. Added to the flickering fire, I nearly drifted off to sleep. Suddenly, I noticed something was amiss.

Something large cried out into the night air. It sounded close, and nearly made me jump out of my shoes. I thought it was a coyote, but if it was, it did not sound normal. There was almost a human-like quality to it.

I grabbed a log out of the hot fire, turned, and waved it through the air behind me. I looked for the prowler. At the same time, I hoped the glowing log would scare the beast away. I saw nothing, but I heard something moving through the brush and across the loose landscape. To my relief it was moving away from me. Thank God whatever that was, it was afraid of fire.

An adrenaline surge caused by the cry of that creature had both my heart and head racing. Because of my fearlessness of the unknown, I found myself stuck in a terrifying situation. In a way I was thankful for the shock. I would not fall asleep any time soon. I planned on the wood I gathered lasting the night. Now I added extra to it so as to increase the size of the fire. Now, what I had left would not last until morning. Several times I told myself to get up to find more. My body did not want to react to my thoughts. I know it made no sense, but I think my body was more afraid than my mind.

Finally I decided I could put it off no longer. Rising to my feet, I peered around for some convenient fuel for the campfire. As soon as I stood, the warmth of the fire faded and my face grew ice cold. I still felt its radiance, and I did not want to walk away from the yellow and orange blaze.

I did not stray far from the protective glow. The ground was too steep to navigate in the dark. I picked up all the wood I could find. Large logs, small twigs, I did not care how big it was. If it was dead wood, it was going into my fire. I would burn anything flammable to keep the blaze glowing bright until morning.

Right as I once again felt the warmth of my fire, the semi-human cry echoed through the valley again. It was rather far away, but I had the feeling it was calling for more of its kind. The image of being shredded apart by the teeth of a pack of hungry coyotes filled my mind.

The longer I thought about it, the clearer the image of a torturous death became. I should have listened to my parents. I never should have come here. I thought I was brave. I was not brave; I was stupid. The vigor of youth still gave me a sense of immortality. Now I would give anything to be in the safety of my home sitting around the fireplace with my siblings as my mother read the Bible to us.

Another twisted cry from below me was answered by another on the mountainside above me. I hurriedly built up the ring of stone to deepen my fire pit. After getting it about eight inches higher, I fed sticks and loose handfuls of leaves to the campfire. Loading on the larger wood, I turned the campfire into a bonfire. I prayed and prayed the mini-inferno would keep the predators at bay.

I thought perhaps I was dealing with a breed of coyote I was not familiar with, and that was why they seem to sound so strange. Still, the animals’ bays eerily resembled the sound of a crying baby. I thought of the stories grandpa told me before he died. At night he reminisced about his boyhood in the Irish Isles. The cries of those creatures brought to mind the tales my grandpa told about the banshee. The tortured soul of an evil woman, the banshee cries out in the night. Anyone clearly hearing her moans died right there on the spot. I knew it was not a punished ghost, but those stories brought frightening images to mind.

I was sure these were simply a different species, but something in the pit of my stomach told me I was dealing with something otherworldly. I never heard tales of beasts in these mountains. I never really heard much at all. The natives only told us to stay away. Any settler that tried to homestead here in the mountains disappeared. They were never heard from again.

Why did I come up here?

More cries pierced the stillness of the night. Those horrific childlike cries now came from many directions. If I heard properly, a total of five creatures shared in the conversation. The horrible baying made me want to cry, and I whispered a prayer softly begging God to protect me from the goblins inhabiting the steep mountainside.

My body trembled with unbridled terror when I heard another creature screaming out into the night, but this one only yards away from me. I backed up as close to the fire as possible, so close the heat burned my back. I did not want to see the thing capable of such terrible howling. I wished it would go back to wherever it came.

I did not get my wish. I did not know what to call the thing I saw. The bulk of the form appeared to be a six-foot tall column of black ink. Thin membranes, resembling something like the wings of a bat, on either side of the top vibrated to produce the childlike screams. I suspected it might use them to hear as well.

The horrid thing had no eyes, ears, at least as I knew them. It had nothing remotely similar to a head. It had no facial features whatsoever.

A band of thick white fibers encircled the being about midway up its trunk. The six inch thick ring of long fibers produced a changing, pulsating glow. It felt like the eyes of a demon staring into my soul. Not even the fear instilling stories told to keep children from straying into the wilderness spoke of such horrendously inhuman things.

Another of the ghastly creatures abruptly emerge from my left. The light emanated by its fibrous band fluctuated with every visible color. Like the first, this unholy creature moved itself by dragging its body using a dozen or so tentacles. The long thin tendrils were easily 8 feet in length but smooth and no thicker than a man’s thumb. A single bone-like talon at the end of the slithering tentacles gripped the ground then retracted pulling the creature forward in the process.

When a third appeared at my right, the membranes at their, for lack of a better word head, began to vibrate. The vibrations were so strong, the membranes only appeared to be an egg shaped blur.

A piercing chorus of the sound of tortured infants stung my ears and vibrated my chest. This went on for a minute or two then stopped for a few seconds. When they resumed their terrifying cries, I cupped my hand over either side of my head in a futile attempt to shield my ears from the unholy sound.

The ebony column to my left began to approach. The illuminated colors at the end of the thick fibers twinkled like a meadow filled with lightning bugs. The colors flashed and changed rapidly producing a mesmerizing effect, and I felt this spectacle trying to reach into my mind. It tugged at my thoughts and tried to force its way in.

My fear of these things outweighed my fear of death 100 fold. This thing from some other world struggled to pull the very thoughts from my mind while shouting at me with its own. I sobbed at the thought of what this thing would do.

Would it rip me apart? Would it consume my body? Would it consume my soul?

I was not going to give it the chance. Without any further thought, I drew father’s musket from my waist and fired at my face from point blank range. The force pushed my body down the steep craggy slope. The creature tried to catch me with the points of its bony talons, but I was quickly out of its reach.

My bones snapped and cracked and I crushed my skull as I tumbled down the craggy slope. I was dead before I fell from my resting stone. I reached the bottom, my body a torn, ragged mess.

The hellish things screamed with its membranes, talking to its companions. They greeted me with offers of friendship and could not understand why I chose to jump to my death. How could I do such a thing? They simply did not understand. I was afraid of what I did not know. Like I said before, fear is a great motivator.

Cedar Sarcophagus

By Mychal Wilson

On August 31, 2019

In Aetet 1, Second Triad

Word Count: 2,460

My family was one of the first of the ultra-wealthy aristocrats to reach the new world. They arrived in North America before the early colonies seceded from the British Empire. Prior to this, my ancestors lived in a castle nestled deep in the mountains of the old country. The majestic fortress, built sometime in the 1100’s, acted as the home of untold generations of my family.

When my great-great grandparents moved to the new world, they would not allow the family’s proud stone manor to stay behind. Block by block the castle was disassembled, moved by sea to America and reassembled at the place of my ancestor’s choosing.

The arduous task took nearly a decade to complete. Labor was scarce and my ancestors felt slaves to be more trouble than they were worth. They died easily and were occasionally quite disobedient. Slaves tended to be more expensive than the work they performed.

The only way to turn a profit with slaves was breeding them, and earlier generations of my family wished to see as little of the Negros as they could. Their fear was the dark-skinned slaves would eventually breed out of control and revolt against their rightful owners.

By the time I was born into the family line, the mass influx of immigrants from all over the world began to fill the land, and their meager buildings took over the landscape.

The family castle once rested in the mountains back in the homeland. It was again reassembled in the mountains that would one day be called “The Smoky Mountains.” They chose a location difficult to access, which was the major factor in it taking nine years to put together. It only took a year and a half to disassemble it and move it to the New World.

Without the kingdom, without the servants or slaves, the building slowly began to decay. Without constant maintenance, entropy slowly took over what was once a grand palace. What were once strong, proud battlements lay on the ground, with only a few still remaining in their proper position atop the broad stone walls. The blocks lay on the ground covered in lichens of mainly two sorts, one rust in color and the other an almost luminescent yellow. Neither were native to the region, only growing on the stone from the mother land. The blocks now lay scattered and cracked by grasses fallen into the tiny crevices formed when the blocks first struck the ground.

The hall that once ran along the interior side of the east wall collapsed eight years after I was born. Every time I saw the toppled stones I wept. This was once my mother’s favorite part of the castle. The sunlight shined brightly through the morning windows revealing a variety of artworks my family acquired at one time or another. Ever since her passing, I looked at this place as a monument in honor of my sweet and caring mother.

Without warning, the entire northern wall buckled in the center and within moments it collapsed. Father so happened to be in that vicinity when the fatigued wall of stone fell crushing him instantly. I never got to know him, so the only images I have of him come from the many portraits lining the walls of the still maintained portion of the decaying structure.

Both of my aunts passed before bearing children, and my uncle’s wife was barren and thus brought no heirs into the family line. This left me and only me as the sole inheritor of the crumbling castle and its fifty-one square miles of land.

My family’s land once spread for hundreds of square miles, but at times to keep up the building, land was sold to pay the debt. Still, fifty-one square miles of land was a lot of land.

Even as a child, I explored the crumbling ruins I would one day inherit. The lichen covered stone southern wall crumbled and fell before my birth. Only a portion of the wall collapsed, leaving the rest strangely bowed inward. The stones of the far end somehow clung in place, but it too would soon fall. It was only a short matter of time before we lost the southern wall, leaving the western wall of the outer castle standing alone. It should be only a few years before it fell from lack of support. The buttresses decayed from the weather and crumbled from the foliage growing out of the stone.

I was in my first year of my second decade when the last wall finally lost its war with time and gravity. As with the other walls, I expected the western wall to fall inward. As I strolled outside along taking my evening walk, the west wall fell outward. I walked along the wall only moments ago, and were I one minute later the collapse would be my demise and my grave.

Several years later – I changed the path of my strolls after the western wall collapse – I took my scheduled daily walk. As I looked around, I thought of how selling of possessions always paid for the upkeep, and those were nearly exhausted. I did not know how I would keep the building standing at all anymore as I was the sole owner of the fortress. My uncle passed only a few years ago, so I was the last of the family line.

Never being much of a socialite, I met very few women in my life. Despite my handsome, well-attended appearance, I did not receive the attraction I expected to receive. It seems I did not have much of a charismatic personality, which really helped to push away any woman I met. I still hoped one day to marry and sire a child to inherit the land when I died, so I still tried to attend social functions when I could.

As I wondered around the grounds, I spotted what was possibly a constructed entrance into what appeared to be a natural grotto almost completely obscured by decades of overgrowth. Even though heavy vines and other vegetation obscured the opening, it seems like something I would have infallibly found by now. I thought I was familiar with every inch of the remaining grounds, but year after year I passed by this area without ever noticing it.

I approached the man-made entrance as quickly as the thick foliage would let me. Something seemed quite eerie about the place, but I could not put my finger on it. It quickly became apparent the portal was not natural.

Soon it became clear to me. The ancient granite comprising my home is the same type of stone used to create this portal. I did not know the function of the place, but once I reached the vine and lichen covered stones I realized its purpose.

I pushed away the wood-vine draped across the face of the entrance and found something shocking. A message in the old language carefully etched deep into the surface of the stone did not tell me much, but I did recognize the homeland spelling of the family name.

I stepped into the opening and discovered the small cavern was in fact a mausoleum. The instant I stepped through I could smell the dry pungent dust floating in the air like a light fog. The clouded air burned my lungs, so I removed my handkerchief from my pocket and used it to conceal my nose.

Small air-shafts let in just enough light so I could see. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness of the tomb. After a minute or so I could see what lined the walls of the room. Shelves of polished marble supported on polished granite stone created alcoves. The vertical granite slabs separated the marble slabs apart to allow the shelves to each hold a single cedar sarcophagus.

The room was larger than I expected and crypt after crypt lined the length of the entire walls. I guessed there must be somewhere between thirty-five or forty of the cubbys, and as far as the light allowed me to see they were all full.

I approached the left wall and found, engraved into the horizontal face of the marble, the names of the one contained within and the name of each of the parents. If I spent enough time in here with a pad and pencil, I could probably track my family tree back quite some way. The idea of it excited me. I now had the opportunity to find out the lineage of aristocrats leading up to my birth.

I walked along the wall of coffins and briefly took the time to glance over the names engraved into the stone shelves. Initially the names of the lineage showed on the face was in the language of old. I could interpret some of them, but not many. As a child, my mother taught me to translate and read the language. That was long ago, and I retained less and less over the years.

After passing the first twelve caskets, the language changed to the English I read and understood. I did not recognize the names on the next two stacks of shelves, but after I walked over to the other wall, I finally saw the name of my great-great grandmother and great-great grandfather.

The sarcophagus held up all these years because of the dryness of the chamber and the fact the coffins were constructed from cedar. Properly selected, cut and treated cedar coffins would hold their integrity for countless ages. In a way, I felt as if this preservation of my family line somehow brought immortality to my ancestors.

I found my grand-parents, and my aunts and uncle. One stone shelf remained empty, the only one that remained empty. The casket sat outside of it and did not appear to be sealed, so I assumed it was probably still vacant. A sudden wave of terror and panic coursed through my mind and body.

Something told me to turn and flee. I stood conflicted. Part of me wanted to run, but part of me wanted to stay. I could not say how long I stood there, my mind conflicted and my heart rate increased. It almost seemed as if I was paralyzed. Nothing but my intense trepidation held me in place.

The sun shifted position after I entered the crypt, so I knew I only had about ten minutes before the mausoleum turned completely dark. Finally my curiosity won over my fear. I knelt down for better leverage and tried to open the lid. It raised an inch or so, but I could not get it open with only one hand.

Returning my handkerchief to my pocket, I used both hands and forced the lid open. The dusty air once again burned my nose and throat. I tried to take slow deep breaths through my nose to lessen the burning.

The lid was heavier than I anticipated. Holding my breath was not an option, as I had to take a deep breath before I struggled to raise the coffin’s lid. After a moment or two of straining my arms, legs and back the lid flew open onto its hinges.

As the lid sprung open, it stirred the dust from the lid, the floor and the stone cubby next to it. The mere quantity of the dust stung my eyes in addition to my nose and throat. I withdrew my shirt so it came untucked from my waist and pulled the top to cover my face. Even then, the dust filtered through my shirt and continued to dry and burn my eyes.

The casket was empty as I expected. It was then I noticed the engraving on the empty shelf. With the dust and the shift in the sun, I could not make out the engraved message on the marble slab.

Tears ran from my eyes and the relentless dust stung them unmercifully which caused me to squint tightly. The concentrated the tears in my eyes made it even more difficult to see the lettering on the polished stone. I tried to force my eyes open a little more, but my reflexes would not allow that.

I leaned in a bit further, which put me leaning above the empty casket. Then I could finally make out the words. As with the others, two names were engraved into the stone. This one shelf was the only to have three lines rather than two. Side by side I saw two names, Gerrard and Cassandra, my parent’s names.

I had to lean in a bit further to read the other two lines. The lettering was smaller in order to accommodate three lines, making it even harder to read. I leaned in a bit further and saw my name under those of my parents. This casket was for me.

As unnerving as that was, it did not seem to bother me too much. It was not until I read the third line the fear rocked my body. Below my name I saw the words “The last of the noble bloodline.”

The shock caused my arms to fall to my side. This released my shirt from my face and once again the dust choked my nose and throat. The sudden tingling in my nose threw me into a sneezing fit. The convulsing and jerking caused me to fall face first into the casket. When I tried to stand I found something blocking my way. The heavy lid fell closed, shutting me inside.

In absolute panic, I rolled over to my back so I could push the lid open again. It did not budge. I tried to use both my arms and legs to open the coffin. The lid continued to stay tightly shut. I began kicking and screaming in a futile effort to somehow gain a grip on the wooden surface.

I never noticed the pain as my fingernails tore from my fingers. I thrashed and shouted to God to get me out of this dire situation. I knew in my heart no one was coming. Vegetation hid the entrance well enough to keep it concealed all these years. I was sure I would never attract someone’s attention in time. I was to meet my end very soon.

Sparks of light filled my eyes as I now struggled to breathe. My thrashing and screaming served to do nothing but rapidly deplete my oxygen.

Grasping my throat as if that was somehow helpful, I thought to myself. I never married and thus never sired any children. I am the last of the bloodline and this casket was made for me. Trapped alive, I realized my ancestors somehow knew and prepared for me to be sealed away forever in this cedar sarcophagus.