Check out children's author Rick Walton's books.
The Goldilocks Project |
Will Sherman
Standing deep in shadow, Crutch conformed his body to the monument, hopeful that no one could see him. Even so, his teeth chattered like a telegraph key. He held his jaw with his hands but that just made his head shimmy.
Sure, he'd be the one the boss would choose to steal the locks.
The boss delighted in tormenting him about his terror of cemeteries.
Golden locks. Who would use golden locks on biers, for Pete's sake? That's just asking for someone to steal them. They'd deserve the loss. It's just that Crutch didn't want to be the one to do the stealing. At least, not in the middle of the night. But the boss had been adamant. “No one will see you then, Crutch,” the boss had said, the hint of a smile tickling the corners of his mouth. “And it'll do you good. You know, it'll build your character.”
Yeh, right. That's all he needed as a three-time loser and professional thief, character.
But, hey! If they're stupid enough to place golden locks on their biers and leave them sitting out unprotected in the cemetery, then they deserve to lose them. Crutch just wished that someone else was doing the actual stealing.
Crutch had reason to despise cemeteries. Ever since his mom tied him to a grave stone and left him there late that Halloween when he was ten, he'd hated cemeteries. Four days and nights he'd been strapped to that slab of cold cement.
But enough waiting. He had to do it or he'd have to face the boss' fury and that'd be worse than stealing the golden locks.
Looking both ways, Crutch dropped to the ground and low-crawled from marker to marker until he was within a few feet of the nearest bier. Sliding his hand upward until his fingertips were only inches from the lock, he paused.
If the locks really were gold, they'd be worth a small fortune. Even melted down, they'd be worth a lot. Maybe even more melted than not.
And it'd serve the boss right if he just happened to disappear after lifting the locks. That'd teach him to screw with a guy's mind.
Crutch smiled and lifted his hand to the lock. It was cold to the touch even though the moon's reflection made it look warm. But locks were supposed to be cold, right? And whether this was gold or not, it was just a lock, after all. So cold gold was okay.
Still holding onto the lock with one hand, he reached into his pocket for the keys.
How the boss had gotten the keys, Crutch didn't know and the boss didn't care to share, but without the keys he'd have had to cut the locks off and that would have taken much longer and damaged the gold.
The first key slid into the slot without resistance. Perfect. But it wouldn't turn.
Crutch tried the second key. Same thing.
Last one has to work, he thought, inserting the key into the lock. He turned it but it wouldn't budge. He twisted it the other way. Nothing.
What the heck? Just to be sure, Crutch tried all three keys again, twisting them first one way and then the other. Nothing.
Crap! Just his luck. He slumped to the ground, his back against the bier. Now what?
Then he almost felt it more than heard it. Click.
Crutch twisted so he could see the lock. It was open, just hanging there.
That's not right, Crutch thought, inching back from the lock. That's not right at all. Something was terribly wrong. He could feel it at the nape of his neck. A chill. A tingling.
Clutch slid back further from the bier, staring at the lock. Click.
The lock on the second bier was open.
Click.
Clutch jumped to his feet and spun around, terror providing speed he didn't know he could muster. A hundred and fifty feet to the cemetery entrance and he was going to get there in a split second.
Sprinting, eyes focused on the gate, he heard what sounded like something heavy moving across the grass behind him.
Crutch was running full out now but the sound got louder. And then it seemed to be on both sides of him. Louder and louder, closer and closer.
Then, to his horror, Crutch saw one bier passing him on his right and another on his left. They were flanking him. And their lids were opening.
Oh, God. Please, God. Don't let this be happening to me, Crutch cried.
The bier lids slid off and the biers increased their speed given the loss of lid weight.
Running as fast as he could, panic driving him forward, hopelessness dragging behind him, his heel caught on something and he stumbled. A quick look over his shoulder confirmed his worst fear. The third bier, ever so near, was right on his rear.
Struggling to keep his balance, Crutch was almost to the gate. Yards, then feet.
But then the two biers to his front blocked his path and the bier behind rammed him.
Crutch screamed.
And then there was silence. And, in that silence, one of the biers in front whispered, “Beat ya.”
Copyright 2007 © Will Sherman. All rights reserved.
   |
          |
|