Drizzle-pouring rain, a flock of tears from heaven's font, one last stretch of icy breath. Yesterday t'was such an sunlit day yet ere this morn all warmth went out in a snuff. Harriet Bowman pludged along the mud slipped path up towards the steeple of Chapel Hill. Father Fleischer would expect the strindgy pews dusted and swept a'fore this even's vigil wenx all the town (at least the more piously natured fellows and madams) would gather to witness the surgical sermon swiftly surmising sin and shame, which the Father would deliver precisely to all and none.
Harriet would rush up the trail as quick as her nimble toes would carry her frightly frail frame, though the slick surface hampered such galavanting. Tightening her frock against the shiver of the empty woods, she grasped an young sapling, fresh breath filling her anew and gazed along the trail to the summit, nary far enough away on sparrows' wings. But not-a-one bird made noise this day. Perhaps for cause of the sprinkling rain they had chosen to hibernate in their habitations. While Harriet perplexed this in her mind she straightened out a step forward continuing along her way when a glittering sight spied her through the wood.
Curiosity uncontainable, the young lass was drawn closer and she slipped off the trodden path towards the odd fuss in the underbrush. Immediately the eerie silence imposed itself upon Harriet and her frock no longer stayed the icy chill. Soon, strange notions began to fill her mind as she drew nearer, still unable to determine the variety of the unusual mass in front of her. Yet she pressed on uncontrollably, each step filling her with a rising sense of dread in her chest, until finally she stepped no more and, in gasping shock, rent the air with blistering scream...
* * * * *
Carefully approaching the quarantine Sheriff Humboldt sighed a soft ease of pain, deep from the inside in the place where all the knots and butterflies go to die. Missy May lay peacefully still on the carpet of age fallen leaves that canvassed the earthen ground of the forest. Her young face was brilliantly unmarred, save a slight of smudge on her left cheek and a bit of twig in her golden hair. So much could not be said for the rest of the young maiden. Sheriff Humboldt slid the tarp back over the child, covering her torn body from idle view. Arising he inquired of his deputy about the details discovered presently, unfortunately the intermittent police staff of Bradbury Heights rarely dealt with such anomalies, and information and insights were extracted only with the greatest effort.
Nevertheless, not serving complete deficiency, the Sheriff's deputy led him further along the scene of the incident, following a trail of blood and bits of shredded cloth. It led them straight through the wood to the river's bank. And across it. Disappearing over the border undoubtedly complicated matters in this already most distressing case. Sheriff Humboldt heaved another sigh, this time not feeling the twinge of hurt quite so much. Today, thought he, will be most uncomfortable.
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