I was sipping coffee in the Amtrak cafe car when I felt a lurch and a rough bump–something like the minor turbulence one experiences in flight–and the next I knew I was swimming, plunging through a scaly underworld of claws, gills, ochre eyes. There was only blackness after that; I may have lost consciousness. It was the Mohawk River, I was told later, named, aptly, for Indians.
For a while, back in l874, it looked as though Widow Dottie May Leach would be the mother of five hundred acres, as many Merino sheep, and married to the best catch in Branbury, Vermont. She was just thirty; Vic was twenty-four. He was interested in Dottie May all right. Other folks say different, but I know the whole story, being her only near relative and a local correspondent for the Addison Register. When you get paid a penny an inch, you develop a nose for news.
The rest of this month KRL will be publishing several short stories, mostly mystery, that have a scary or Halloween feel or setting to them. A Time To Bury The Past by Nancy Means Wright is set in a cemetery which seemed like the perfect place to start! It was originally published in 2005 in Windchill, an anthology of mystery shorts from Level Best Books.
