Hallow Springs

I pull my motorcycle up to the curb
I can’t believe I’m listening to that crazy old man
I must be the one who’s disturbed
I walk into the retirement community
Quiet as I can
Past Mr. Mulligan’s little house
Past his garden of turned up dirt
“Dam kids musta pulled up me garlic!”
Why would I listen to him?
I could have satisfied him with lies
Ensuring him the new caretakers have nothing to hide
But Mr. Mulligan had been so determined
And it’s hard to deny the wishes a senile old hermit
I creep over to the shed
As I approach I can see a dull glow from the caretaker’s house
I turn the handle and open the door
Darkness
I fumble for my lighter
The orange flame dimly douses three swinging silhouettes of hanging bodies into sight
And reflects silver blood painted upon their withered skin
A quiet whimpering choir was sung between the three of them
I froze dead
And exited
I paced away from the shed
Blood pumping to my head
“Hey!” Somebody was calling out
I walk faster, not about to turn around
I can hear the crunching of gravel close behind
I start to run, my heart begins to pound
I jump on my bike and flash on the lights
The last thing I ever saw was our shadows collide