Aunt Pauline’s house was on the other side of Hendrix, which would have made for a short trip in any other town. Hendrix, though, was built around one of the largest mountains in Appalachia. So, unless you could climb or fly, going from one end of town to the other could take the better part of a day.
Pauline’s nephew, Colson, had been promising to deliver her the sofa for weeks, and she had made it clear she was tired of waiting. With a hangover needling him from behind his eyes, he hadn’t gotten started as early as he wanted. It was sure to be dark by the time he got back. These days, that was to be avoided. There were rumors of robed figures that roamed the streets, looking for souls to take. Colson did not believe in such nonsense and, even if he did, couldn’t disappoint his aunt again.
Getting late to Aunt Pauline’s was a sure way to make her angrier than she already was, so looking to avoid an earful was topmost on Colson’s mind. That’s when he spotted the thoroughfare that headed up the mountain. He had lived in town for a number of years, but knew it went through private land, so most people avoided it. The road headed toward the mountain, but he could immediately see it bend, almost assuring it didn’t go up it. Colson wheeled his truck onto the road, reasoning that fewer miles meant fewer minutes.
He continued to hope this until he became so lost that the sun set before he even arrived at Aunt Pauline’s. He only stopped when he saw the torches up ahead, held up by hooded figures, a cross burning behind them.
See the author’s published work here.
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