In Meklem County, every night a human disappears. There is no preference to gender. Whether it be male or female, it does not matter. There is no predilection to age. Whether they are young or old, for they are all taken one by one. The only pattern the police can swallow into their petrified lungs, are the shrilling screams they hear upon the witching hour at three a.m. Can they solve the mystery before it is too late?
It is midnight. Three hours until they will come once again. I have only my radio and the silent sound of my cellphone next to me. I await patiently, knowing someone will call. They always do. Half of the town has evacuated, the rest are too afraid to leave. Our town used to be a place for family to come for the holidays or couples to gather for a rendezvous. Now, the only visitors are the F.B.I. investigators and a few broken family members who have gone mad by the loss of their loved ones.
I stare out the window into the eerie night, never hearing a foot step, nor a single vehicle passing by, only with the nerve racking thought of who will be taken next. The Bradleys are still here, but they say they all sleep together now. For a family that loathed each other, now the Bradleys spend every waking moment embracing their life as if it will be the last time they will see each other. To be honest with you, it probably is.
Miley Stephenson, has a three year old by the name of Janie, and an elderly grandmother who lives with her. She used to have a husband and a teenage boy, but they are both gone now, because they were sucked away by them. Each night as the darkness falls upon the sky, the Stephensons stay hidden inside the unlit cellar. They each stay awake until the sun peeks through the tiny window in the morning. The Stephensons make sure they are never alone, they always stay together.
I pace the hardwood floors, smoking too many cigars. As the smoke lingers throughout the room, I stomp up to the bulletin board, trying to find the one clue that will be the key to end this maddening event. There are sporadic pegs everywhere, no patterns what so ever. "Why isn't there ever a pattern?" I ask as I crush my cigar into the ash tray. I run my hand through my hair and think to myself, "What am I missing? There has to be something, something I am not seeing!" I walk over to the desk across from me. I flip the newspaper open to the last events written by our journalist investigator posted before he was sucked away into the night. I read the article in bold black letters,The Shallows. It seems he has discovered a name. "Maybe, there is hope," I whisper to myself. I read further, wanting to know more.
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The Witching Hour AnthologyShort Story
Ever wondered why the early hours of the morning are so still, so silent, and yet so ... creepy? The Witching Hour isn't just when the bars close; it's an archaic belief that sinister forces emerge between the hours of midnight and 3am, growing heig...