Apparition

Clint makes a fateful decision and suffers the consequences. Second draft.

Dust boiled angrily skyward as the gigantic yellow machine flattened the land beneath it.

Clint Murphy wiped his damp forehead with a shirt-covered forearm after bringing the grader to a halt.

Indian summer had kicked into high gear with daytime temperatures soaring into the mid 80s. That combined with a day devoid of breezes had made him sweat heavily most of the day.

“It’s hotter than hell out here,” he remarked with a chuckle, then shook his head at the age-old habit of speaking out loud to himself when he worked in isolation.

Heat made him miserable but he tolerated it for the good paying job he had. “A man’s gotta pay the bills.”

Self talk, as his former therapist called it, was one of many coping skills he’d learned after his beloved grandmother passed away years ago.

The day Granny died brought grief and depression with it. A soul deep sadness that lasted for weeks on end. He’d had no desire to go fishing or go out to dinner with his wife of forty odd years. Mellie, his high school sweetheart, the woman he loved more than anything. They’d married not long after graduation, bought a modest home, raised two children to adulthood, and welcomed a half dozen grandchildren into the world. A good life by almost anyone’s standard. One he was proud of.

But none of that helped with the dark cloud that consumed him after Granny died.

Mellie was the only person with enough influence to encourage him, the tough mountain man afraid of nothing, into seeing a counselor for his depression.

A smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he thought of his grandmother, God rest her soul. Hotter than a pig in the July sun would be her description of the day.

Clint chuckled and shook his head at Granny’s adage.

Wisdom he’d heard dozens of times and now missed desperately. Granny had gone home to meet her maker just over a decade ago. His eyes burned at the memory.

Time for a distraction.

He took a drink from an ice-cold bottle of water he retrieved from the six pack cooler he kept in the cab of any equipment he operated. Then he held the bottle against the nape of his neck with a satisfied sigh. It wasn’t an air conditioner but it would certainly do in a pinch. Another trick Granny made sure to teach her dozens of grandchildren along with a few great grandchildren who routinely created chaos any time they had gathered at the old homeplace.

“Much better,” he remarked aloud, raising the nearly empty bottle skyward in a salute. Granny had always said a cold drink of water soothed the fevered soul–something he hadn’t understood as a rebellious teen, only appreciating the wisdom as the years passed by. “Thank you for your words of wisdom and tricks over the years, Granny! I may not have listened then, but I hold dearly onto those nuggets now.”

Once he drank the last drop of water he took a few moments to survey what remained of the mountain, most of which had been eaten away for valuable minerals buried deep underground. It was now a flat expanse of ground suitable for the shopping center investors planned to build here. No one could hold back progress.

Although he didn’t agree with destruction of historical sites or the majestic mountains, he knew excavation and site preparation were honest work that paid the bills.

Clint climbed out of the cab and dropped to the ground.

It was time to head home. He could come back another day to retrieve the equipment. Now he wanted nothing more than a cold beer and a plate of whatever tasty food his wife Mirna had cooked today.

At that moment something unusual caught his eye—something he hadn’t noticed before, no doubt hidden from view by the previously mountainous terrain—a small opening beneath a cliff in a hill he hadn’t leveled yet.

Clint walked toward the anomaly at a leisurely pace. There was no need to hurry since he knew there would likely be nothing of interest inside having investigated sites like this enough times to know he’d come up empty handed.

For years he’d heard of old Civil War hideouts littered with collectible relics but had yet to score.

The opening was barely big enough for his six foot two inch frame but he managed to squeeze through with some acrobatics.

A sense of excitement, fed by the thrill of the unknown and mysterious possibilities, began to build in his gut seconds after he entered the cavity. There was nothing more than a cobweb fluttering in an errant breeze inches from his face.

“Hate these damn things,” he muttered, tearing it down with one swipe of a hand. He had no desire to do the crazy windmill dance most people engaged in when an unexpected strand kissed their skin.

His cell phone’s battery maintained a decent charge in most areas where he worked. It hovered around the eighty percent mark now which allowed him to activate the flashlight function so he could inspect the cave’s interior. He knew based on past experiences where the most he’d found were old moth eaten Confederate relics. An old uniform. A rotting leather boot.An assortment of other inconsequential items worth next to nothing. His collection of relics was small, but still something he was proud of.

As he pirouetted in a half circle, the interior of the cave was no different than others he had explored in the past.

It took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the velvety darkness filling the cave. Clint turned the flashlight on his cell phone hoping to reveal more details. The interior was no more than ten by ten feet or so, no larger than his office at business headquarters.

“What the hell?” he muttered.

Strewn haphazardly around the perimeter of the room were at least a dozen sizable wooden chests with leather hinges. The lids stood open revealing mounds of gold coins and handfuls of rainbow jewels, some nestled in the clasps of ornate jewelry.

He edged closer, eyes widening to see Indian artifacts stacked in front of the crates.

Unable to contain his fascination, Clint drew closer, reaching out with trembling hands to touch the headdress.

He knew from his brief forays into Native American history that the intricate detail of beads and feathers meant a person of great importance had owned it.

But why was it stored in a cave with other items of immense value?

The reasons didn’t matter. A small portion of the invaluable treasure here would make him a wealthy man—one who would no longer have to break his back operating heavy equipment in the harshest weather conditions for a pittance.

His phone’s battery level now sat in the red, which was surprising given it usually lasted throughout the day. An added problem was that dusk was rapidly approaching.

Clint made the decision to take what he could carry. No one would be the wiser since the place would be leveled within days. He selected the artifacts in the best condition.

Gold coins and jewels filled the tail of his shirt, now turned into a basin by holding the hem in a hand.

His mother and grandmother had taught him the trick when they sat stringing and breaking beans during canning season. Not once did he think the trick would come in handy for something like this.

Clint made his way to the cave’s exit content in the knowledge he’d be a man of leisure in no time. Visions of white sandy beaches filled his head.

Visions that shattered with the faint sound of scuffling movements reaching his ears.

The atmosphere around him changed, the hairs on his arms standing erect. But what triggered his body’s reaction?

A shiver raced up his spine as the temperature dropped significantly lower; so much so that his breath fogged the air.

The frigid air was accompanied with an errant breeze tinged with the knowledge that something, someone now stood behind him. He shivered as goose flesh formed on his arms.

A breath of air stirred the damp hair on the back of his head. Clint swore. Icy tendrils of fear raced along his spine, creeping outward into every limb, even his fingers and toes.

Toes that now curled.

Fingers that clenched in fists as a fight or flight response swelled in response to the unknown.

And Clint? He wanted nothing more than to run like hell, to leave this place behind, but something held him back.

A baritone voice echoed within the pounding confines of his mind–not spoken aloud, just there. An ancient voice that held the tone of arcane knowledge. Accentuated with dark power.

“You desecrate a holy place.”

He stood mere feet from the outside world but IT demanded he turn around.

Pivoting on the ball of one foot with agonizing slowness, he tried to avoid the inevitable, his eyes stinging as tremors had his knees knocking. An icy ball of terror weighed heavy in his gut. Its frigid tendrils unfurled internally like the tentacles of a giant octopus, reaching deep, crushing life giving air from his lungs.

An Indian apparition clutching a staff decorated with feathers stood there, the chests and artifacts faintly visible through its form.

Dark eyes filled with fire caught and held his gaze.

He had desecrated a sacred place with his presence, by taking the treasures. His hands trembled so violently some of the bounty in his shirt spilled onto the ground.

There was no way to make amends.

He was cursed.

The apparition’s arms stretched toward him.

The apparition forced eight prophetic words into his mind. “You will die by a puff of wind.”

Clint dropped everything, coins tinkling as they landed on the rocky ground. “There!” he shouted, voice tremulous and weak. “Take it back.”

“Too late,” the apparition grinned, thin lips peeling back to reveal row upon row of gleaming ivory teeth. “Your greed is your downfall.”

Clint stumbled and nearly fell as he backed away, heart pounding, horrified, unwilling to turn his back on the thing that cursed him. He knew he’d die one day just as the apparition promised. But what unknown entity would deliver the killing blow?

He stumbled, falling into the light unceremoniously with a high-pitched shriek.

He raced to his truck swearing to never speak of what he saw and heard within the cave.

Clint broke more than a few traffic laws on the drive home–he needed to put as much distance between himself and that thing as he could.

Mellie met him at the door once he made it home. The tantalizing scent of freshly baked cornbread, apple pie, and what he suspected was Mellie’s famous meatloaf, teased his nostrils.

“Hard day at work?” Mellie asked as tilted her face for the kiss he placed there.

It was a habit they’d developed over the years. He made every effort to be home by six in the evening, Mellie would meet him at the door, they talked about his day after the fleeting kiss on her cheek that was an integral part of the routine. His way of saying I missed you. I’m so glad to be home–what’s for dinner?

“Before you ask,” Mellie murmured, “We’re having meatloaf with mashed potatoes, green beans, corn bread, and apple pie.”

“My favorites,” Clint replied with a smile. “Let me wash up first.”

“Meet you at the table.”

As always, Mellie plated the food, and sat waiting for him. Habits like those were difficult to break, not that he wanted to change things. There was comfort in customs formed over the years with his wife.

Clint couldn’t eat, not with a ball of ice sitting in his gut, the apparition’s words playing on repeat in his head. “You will die by a puff of wind.”

What the hell did it mean?

“You’re not hungry.” Mellie broke the silence that ensued after quietly observing him push food around on the plate instead of eating.

He couldn’t eat. How could he? Thinking of food made him nauseous–or was it something more sinister?

“Feel like I’m coming down with something.” The lie fell flat. Glancing at his watch, Clint stood up. “I’m going to take a shower so I can turn in early tonight. The heat has drained me.”

The heat and the apparition and the prophecy of his death. He didn’t tell Mellie, though.

Some things were better left unsaid.

Mellie’s usually calming presence did little to settle his nerves. They were in bed by nine that night–another habit formed over the years. Always going to bed at the same time together.

He tossed and turned for hours. Around four in the morning he finally dozed off only to find his dreams filled with horror.

“You got that tire changed yet?” The truck driver groused as he scratched his paunchy belly.

Clint bit back a curse, glancing sideways at the man who was the epitome of the deadly sin sloth. The trucker could have helped change the tire. Instead, he chose to lean against the wall feet away belching occasionally.

Clint shook his head and got back to work.

It took Herculean effort to get the massive rim in place but he managed.

The torque wrench whined with each lug nut he tightened into place.

Clint leaned closer, swearing at several bulges forming on the exterior tire wall. A brand new tire.

Aware of the danger it presented, he started to pull away to a safe distance.

Too late Clint heard the hissing sound of air escaping around the rim.

Boom!

Everything blurred, slowing to a crawl in Clint’s world in the same way movies slow down fight scenes. Surrealism in its finest moment.

The explosion rocked the building, dismantling the interior of the bay with shocking ease. Even the disgusting trucker was thrown onto the grease-stained concrete where he landed with a shouted expletive.

Clint was catapulted backwards by the force of the blast.

Shrapnel sliced into his face and neck, blood gushing from fatal wounds to firm a morbid 98 degrees Fahrenheit of necklace. He’d never been fond of adornment but no one could avoid the Grim Reaper’s calling card.

Not him. Not anyone.

As he lay on the icy concrete, Clint’s vision faded to black, a final thought passing through his dying mind.

He had forgotten the apparition’s fatalistic warning, not that he could have escaped his fate. An ending set in stone from the instant he made the decision to sully the sacred place.

You will die by a puff of wind.

Clint woke with a start, heart pounding, covered in sweat from head to toe–the sheet and pillowcase were damp from the overabundance.

Mellie stirred beside him, her hand settling on his forearm as she sat up in bed.

“Bad dream?” she asked.

“More than a bad dream,” he explained in a choked whisper. “I’d rather not talk about it, okay?”

“Of course,” his wife smiled. “Lie down and try to get a couple hours sleep before you have to get up.”

Clint lay beside Mellie on his back staring at the ceiling, fingers clutching the sheet until the knuckles blanched. He knew one thing for certain.

He’d never sleep well again–not until after the day he died–by a puff of wind.