by: Marty Chrisman
Luke spent a sleepless, restless night worrying about Kelly. When she wasn’t in school the next day, he had the awful feeling that something was wrong. Unable to shake the nameless dread he felt deep inside of him, he cut his afternoon classes and walked back towards the farm. But, instead of going home, he cut across the fields and headed towards the shack where Kelly lived with her parents.
When the old rundown shack came in sight, Luke felt a cold chill run down his spine. It was too quiet, much too quiet. Everything instinct he had screamed at him to run, to go home and get Jesse. But his concern for Kelly over ruled his common sense. Slowly he walked across the dirt yard and stepped up onto the rickety old porch. The eerie silence gave him the creeps but he had to make sure that Kelly was okay.
The front door gapped open an inch or two, but Luke couldn’t hear any sounds from inside the house. He felt the goose bumps on his arms and the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. Something was wrong, very very wrong. He could feel it. Slowly, he reached out and pushed open the door, hesitating for several seconds before finally stepping across the threshold.
A strangled cry caught in his chest, and he stumbled back until he hit the wall behind him. His eyes widened with horror at what he saw. Kelly’s mother was lying half on the couch and half off, her eyes wide open. Her throat had been cut and the blood had pooled on the floor beneath her body. Kelly’s father was sitting in a chair next to the front window. Most of his head was gone, blown away by the shotgun lying across his lap. Luke heard himself whimpering like a child as his mind tried to block out what he was seeing.