Peripheral Vision: A Supernatural Thriller(33)
“Are you alright Miss?” The concerned male jogger asked.
“Um, yeah. I just lost my footing. I’m faster than I thought... I guess.” Sarah forced an embarrassed smile. The joggers weren’t smiling.
“Are you sure you’re okay? You’re bleeding.” The female jogger asked.
“Yes I’m fine. Thank you.”
The man helped Sarah to her feet, but continued to frown at her. “You really shouldn’t be jogging out here alone. It’s not safe.”
“I said I’m fine! I’m fine... thank you.” Sarah turned, brushing herself off as she walked away from the concerned joggers. The two exchanged a look and then jogged on. The female jogger looked back and tried to send a smile Sarah’s way, but Sarah just nodded.
“Damn it, Sarah.” Her fingers found their way to the painful scratches on her face like fingers tend to do. She cringed at her touch. She grabbed her cell once more, but she still didn’t have service. She gave up and followed the jogger's path through the trees. It didn’t take her very long to find the right path back to the tunnel. How was I so lost before? Her mind questioned. She tried not think about it, and instead bent down and crawled into the tunnel. She had only moved a few feet before she thought better of it and crawled back out. Sarah picked up some of the leafy branches and carefully pulled them into the tunnel behind her to camouflage the entrance, before disappearing into darkness.
Night had officially fallen by the time Sarah climbed out of the small opening and back into the damp, dank smelling cellar beneath the Bayard house. The unlit trip back through the tunnel had been nearly impossible without a flashlight, but she had made do with her cell phone light and endorphins; and was very thankful she had lit the lantern by the entrance to the crawl space. Sarah really wanted to board the little doorway back up, but instead she immediately headed up the cellar stairs, where she pushed the desk stacked with sewing machines back in front of the open cellar entryway. She then ran up the basement stairs to the main floor of the house, and locked the door behind her.
The first thing Sarah did when she got upstairs was make herself a drink, three fingers of whiskey. Then she grabbed her cell, but got Nick’s voicemail again.
“Hey you’ve reached Nick Fielding. Leave a message.”
She started speaking after the beep, “Nick, it’s Sarah again. I’m sorry to keep calling, but please call me as soon as you get this. It’s important.”
Sarah hung up and debated calling the police, but decided she should wait for Nick. He probably has the answer, she reassured herself, you’re jumping to crazy conclusions.
Sarah took her drink and sat down in front of her laptop at the kitchen table. She’d decided to do some more research on her late relatives. She searched a number of different combinations using the name Bayard, but nothing of note came up. Then she typed in “Eli Bayard October 17, 1965”. There was something there. In a link from the chat room blog entitled “Dark Death’s list: Part Deux”, Sarah found an obscure video blogger talking about murders and strange deaths in Nebraska. She hit play.
“So I’ve blogged at length about weird deaths in Nebraska lore, but here’s the topper. Pretty twisted stuff here for such a small town. Eli Bayard, father of three and devoted husband gets shot down in his own kitchen on October 17th of ‘65. October 17th.... Sound familiar? Yeah, that’s right folks, remember what we talked about in my third blog? Connecting the dots, connecting the dots and BOOM! Same exact date that his great grandad dies from a gunshot wound after the freakin’ Iktomi Indian Massacre! You remember the massacre right? One of the bloodiest and strangest battles in Nebraska, and this guy... the lone survivor lives just long enough to tell the story. How can it get any weirder, you ask me? Well, the bullet that killed Eli in his own home seemed to have actually been meant for the forty-eight year old dude’s daughter, Michelle! According to multiple sources in this old newspaper article, Michelle was the target of a scorned, disturbed PRO-Vietnam high school boy - turned crazed gunman. His name was Matthew Miller and he took exception to Michelle’s outspoken anti-war stance. According to one interview, she despised Matthew and belittled him every chance she got. Even turning down an invitation to the school’s formal. Wow... just wow, right? But that’s not all...”
The blogger continued to talk, but Sarah had stopped listening. She took a big swig of her drink and closed her laptop. Her eyes fell on the photograph of young Sarah on the fridge. They began to water.
She tried again to think of her mother’s face. The outline was there, but nothing else. “Mommy?” Sarah’s voice whispered to the empty room. But at that moment her thoughts were interrupted by the faint sound of music suddenly drifting out of the living room, under the door arch, and into the kitchen. Sarah immediately recognized the tune. It was from her dream. She stood up from the table and walked out of the kitchen-listening. It was coming from the basement she decided, and slowly made her way to the door. Sarah hesitated for a moment before unlocking and opening the door. She strained her ears-listening- and then flipped on the light switch. The lone light cast shadows up and down the walls of the stairwell. The glass marbles were still scattered at the bottom of the steps.
“Hello?” The music faded away. Sarah shook her head. Had she really just heard that? She closed the door and once again locked it, before heading back to the kitchen. Maybe I should give this a rest, she thought as she jiggled the withered ice in her whiskey glass. And then she was sure she heard something again.