Night Party

The drive to the riverbank was tense, the squad car's tires crunching over gravel roads shrouded in mist. Vera stared out the window, her mind racing. "Hank sounded scared out of his wits. Said the neck was twisted, eyes open. Matches the pattern."

Jack gripped the wheel tighter. "Same as Lila. And the ones before. You think it's really... you know, the spirit?"

Matilda leaned forward from the back seat. "I've heard stories from my grandma. She said the eyes are always like that—frozen in fear, like they saw the devil himself."

Kane, sitting beside Matilda, spoke up. "It's not the devil. But it's something. When I escaped, I remember that look—I saw it in my reflection for weeks after."

Vera turned in her seat, eyeing him. "You keep hinting, Kane. What exactly did you see that night? No more holding back."

He hesitated, then sighed. "Alright. I was playing outside, and heard this jingling—like bells or keys. I followed it without thinking, like I was in a dream. Ended up at the Carey house. Inside, it was cold, darker than night. Hands grabbed me—cold, strong. A voice whispered, 'An eye for an eye.' I fought, scratched, bit—broke free somehow. I’m not sure exactly how. Maybe I had angels watching over me. I ran as fast as I could. Ran to the river, collapsed there. That's all I remember clearly."

The car fell silent, the weight of his words hanging heavy. Jack broke it as they pulled up to the riverbank. "We're here. Fishermen are waiting."

The scene was grim: Hank and two other fishermen—old timers named Earl and Pete—stood guard over a tarp-covered shape by the water's edge. The river lapped gently at the mud, an indifferent witness to the horror. Hank removed his hat as they approached, his weathered face etched with sorrow. "Sheriff, glad you're here. It's bad. Real bad."

Vera knelt, lifting the tarp carefully. Eli's small body lay there, his red jacket muddied, his neck contorted unnaturally. His eyes were wide with silent fear as he gazed blankly up at the sky. A wave of nausea hit her, followed by a crushing sense of failure. "Damn it," she whispered, her voice breaking. "He was just a kid. How does this keep happening? What am I missing?"

Earl shuffled his feet, his voice rough, "We've seen too many like this over the years, Sheriff. Started long before you got here. Pete and I pulled bodies from this river back in the '40s. Always the same—kids, twisted up, eyes like that."

Pete nodded, spitting into the dirt. "Curse of Carey, that's what. Town's paid for their sins a hundred times over. You're new here, but you can't fight ghosts with badges and guns."

Vera stood, her frustration boiling over. "Enough with the ghost talk! These are murders—real, flesh-and-blood killers. We need evidence, not legends."

Hank glanced at Kane, recognition dawning. "Baker? Kane Baker? Hell, boy, you were one of 'em. What do you say? Was it a ghost that took you?"

Kane knelt beside the body, his face hardening. "I don't know what it was, Hank. But it's tied to my family. My grandfather—Mathias Baker—was the one who led the mob. He ordered Martin Carey buried alive, and threw his wife and child into the river. This curse... if that's what it is... it's his doing. Our bloodline's poison."

The fishermen murmured among themselves, Earl crossing himself. "Mathias? That old bastard. Knew he would one day bring doom on us all."

Vera pulled Kane aside, her voice low and urgent. "Your grandfather? The leader? Why tell me now?"

"Because seeing this—Eli—it brings it all back," Kane replied, his eyes distant. "Mathias died when I was young, but he confessed on his deathbed. Regretted it, said the town would pay forever. And I know where Martin's buried. Out by the old cemetery, under the split oak. Unmarked, but I can find it."

Vera's mind raced, a plan forming. "Then we're digging him up. Tonight. I'll prove this is all a myth—his body's still there, bones and all. No spirit, no curse. Just a story to cover up a serial killer."

Jack overheard, stepping closer. "Digging up a grave? Sheriff, that's... that's sacrilege. Or illegal, at least."

Matilda nodded, pale. "And dangerous. What if the legend's true?"

Vera shot them a determined look. "It's not. And if it is, better we know. Kane, return to the precinct at dusk. Bring what we need."

Kane met her gaze, a spark of reluctant admiration in his eyes. "Shovels, lanterns. I'll be there."

.

.

.

The rest of the day dragged in a haze of paperwork and grief. In a heartbreaking call full of sobs and accusations, Vera coordinated with the coroner and informed Eli's distraught parents. His mother cried out, "Why couldn't you stop it?" Vera had no response, just assurances she wasn't sure she could follow.

The fog rolled in thicker as night fell, shrouding the town in a spooky silence. With its headlights piercing the darkness, Kane's Chevy truck thundered up to the precinct. He hopped out, unloading shovels and a kerosene lantern from the bed.

"Ready?" he asked, his voice steady.

Vera nodded, holstering her pistol. "Jack, you're with us. Matilda, hold down the fort. Radio if anything comes up."

Matilda bit her lip. "Be careful, all of you. This feels wrong."

Jack clapped her on the shoulder, "We'll be fine. Just a little grave robbing between friends."

They piled into the truck—Vera in the passenger seat, Jack in the back—and drove off toward the old cemetery. The truck bounced over ruts as the road wound through thick woods. "You sure about this, Sheriff?" Jack asked from behind. "Digging up the past—literally—might not end well."

Kane glanced in the rearview. "It's the only way to know, Jack. If Martin's body's gone, then maybe the legend's real. If it's there... well, we hunt a living monster."

Vera stared into the darkness ahead. "Either way, we end this." The grave site loomed in the distance, a shadowy promise under the split oak, as the chapter drew to a close.