The short cut

The Short Cut.

A small crowd gathered on the bridge to watch the scene develop below.

 I wandered over, pretending not to care.

 KBC News, a local Television studio, were giving live updates,

 "Looks like a walker found something earlier today... a body down there, in the trash. Seems like the Victim had been dead for a while, but the site was disturbed this morning. Police are looking into this tragic accident...”

Site disturbed, was that me?

 No, I just got here. 

Victim? was it a murder then?

 I turned back toward work, I had no business there, or that is what I needed to show. Yes, get back to work, relax, you’ve done nothing wrong. You just kicked a can of paint over the bridge, and it landed, yes, it landed on a dead body! Wow.

 Wonder who it was? what about the paint? I was the one who kicked the can, sent it cascading down and splattering all-over a murder site. I looked down at my shoes, spatters of black Paint.

 I’m not involved, am I?

Four hours earlier.

Leaping over that crooked wall always brought a smile to my face. I was late for work again, but this neat little beeline would put me right back on time, and tumbling into the mini adventure I craved. scrambling up the embankment, BlackBerry thorns sunk their talons into me as I struggled on. A few scratches endured, but totally worth the minutes saved by crossing here. Ambling the last few feet over the rusty steel, there, on the girders, that old paint can.

I had taken this route often and always passed it by, but this morning was different.

Times up buddy, you’re going down!

I swung my foot out and booted the can up and over the bridge edge. As it went skyward, the lid came off, and black oily mess flew out into the frosty air.

 I peered down through the bars to the disused track below, my breath catching as I searched for the paints landing spot.

 It seemed fine at first, just a pile of trash -old clothes, rags, a broken bottle, a hand?

 Wait.

 Is that a hand? I tried to look closer through the paint. Was it? 

A faint whirring was in my ear, what was that, oh, another drone strike!

It was time to get indoors. I scrambled off the bridge and made my way up the viaduct steps to Coopers.

What about that hand? What the hell had I just seen? It looked like a human hand in that trash pile. 

Wait, maybe it was a manikin hand? covered in paint anyway. Yeah, that’s it, just a stupid, plastic hand. Was it?

 My leather look slip-ons creased against the swelling door to number 58.

 Tring!

"Oh, let me help you with that!" said Libby, our office manager pulling on the rain-soaked timber, she flashed a smile and floated down the hall.

“Your late!” Boomed Mr. Cooper, my boss. I looked at my watch, 9.03.am. Damn it, should have left that can alone.

” Sorry Mr. Cooper, there was another drone strike just now, did you hear it Sir?"

 I cringed inside with my lame apology.

Crickets, I heard crickets. I got to work.

 Looking busy at Coopers Print Company, was mandatory, especially when there was nothing to do. And boy, was there nothing to do. They say Cooper still has the first Buck he ever earned. I would not be surprised.

That hand, was it plastic? I'm not convinced. I should go back and be sure, it's on the way home. 

Hang on, I’ve got that Scout camping trip tonight, the last camp before Halloween. I was supposed to leave straight from work, can't miss that. Here’s the thing, I could go there and back at lunch.

 Yeah, nobody around, nip back, up the embankment, and go see that trash pile up close, maybe clean that paint up. Someone might get curious as how paint got splattered everywhere. 

Lunch at twelve, what's the clock say? 11.39am, I got this. 12.01pm and I'm already moving toward the rail embankment, at least it stopped raining.

 A blue haze in the air, flashing,

It’s the cops.

I stopped in my tracks and looked toward the railway. A police cordon had been placed around the area underneath the bridge, right where that trash piled up.

Now what?

Case closed? I guess the cops will figure it out.

Well, Cooper had my week, but The Eagle Scouts had my weekends, and it was finally Friday! We met as arranged at 6.pm at the hut to check the gear and start the camp weekend. I was relieved to get out of work, and away from that railway. This was the last camp before Halloween. Friday October 26th. Kit bag’s here, bedroll's there, blah blah. I hated this part; I just wanted to get on the road. Once everything was set. Mr. Wells, our scout captain, drove the bus to camp. All aboard! We reached Middle wood in less than twenty minutes.

 “Good work Wells”, we all cheered! 

If I sound impatient, sorry, but you know that feeling when you're going on vacation, and just want to get there already?

 The best thing about camp is when all the kids are settled in their tents, the campfire is blazing and everyone's eating supper. Good times. This was a big camp, with all the district troupes. After supper we gathered around the fire in the center of our clearing. It was almost Halloween, and the scout leader usually had some cheesy ghost story for bedtime. Tonight, was no different, except that Mr. wells, our very own Mr. wells, was the speaker. First time he’s done this. I secretly hated Wells, he always seemed to get kicks from shouting kids out for no reason. He was the scout master, but he made sure you knew it. His smarmy face lunged into the camp light and began.

“Many of you may know about the curse of the white lady. I will re tell this story for the uneducated.”

What a Pompous turd.

I joined the yawns, spreading out like a Mexican wave around the fire.

 "Please do not venture into Middle wood tonight”.

 Too late, we are in Middle-wood, dumbass!”

An unknown but welcome heckler blurted out.

“Good work from the back! I snickered inside”; this was getting embarrassing.

“The ghost of the white lady is amongst us. Her only role is to set mischief and upset.” Give it a rest Wells.

We all knew this tale.

Allegedly, the white lady lived and died over 70 years ago in Middle wood, on the Bridgeton estate. She hung herself after her children disappeared, after she left them alone in the house one night. They were never found. The legend says her spirit haunts the woods, always wearing a white shawl, so that her lost children could see her in the dark, out looking for them. 

That’s the story, pretty creepy, but just a story.

“Please be aware of her disturbed state, this is not a friendly spirit!” Wells going for the Oscar.

“Her grave sits out there, near the lake. We must go pull up the headstone, release the spirit inside. It's the only way to stop the haunting.” Get a rope from the quartermaster, take flashlights, and a spade. Go into the woods, find the grave, and pull up the headstone.” 

Now that was never in the tale. Wait, this was wrong.

But it's just a story, isn't it Mr. Wells?

The heckling stopped. I looked at Wells, he was enjoying this, the kids were really scared.

I was scared.

“This is no story; we must kill the white Lady’s ghost!” He was on a roll.

Ok, Wells no more. I had to say something.

“Hey Mr. Wells, this is Halloween, right?

Aha! 

Good job sir! you had us all there!"

I was shaking.

“Somebody gets me a rope” growled Wells undeterred.

Are you kidding me? a small group of scouts assembled, ropes, spades, flashlights, all ready, that’s us, be prepared! I can't believe it's almost Halloween and were going ghost hunting. Wells was crazy, but, as if in some kind of frightening collective trance, we were all behind him. He led us out, across the meadow, into the dark. Scurrying past the moon caves, through damp weeds, almost within twenty feet of middle wood lake, we halted. There in the rising mist, what looked like, a headstone, picked out by one of our marauding flashlight beams. A Gray slab of something, jutted out from the marsh grass.

“That’s it” shouted Wells, “get the rope”.

Are you sure? What the hell was happening, this was at best, grave robbing, at worst I don’t know, interfering with the dead, releasing evil spirits, like, who would want to do that shit? I don’t know, but we were all with him. Trembling, we looped the rope over the headstone, covered in moss and dirt. Together, we took up the slack and pulled on the twisted hemp. Heave Ho! 2, Six, 2, six, an adopted old navy chant, Let the spirit go!

This was insane, yet we pulled and pulled until the stone uprooted and lay on the sodden ground.

Our terrified group yelled in relief.” Yah! the ghost of the white lady is dead; the spirit is gone.”

Wells shouted, “well done lads let's get back to camp, well done.”

“We let the evil spirit go!” he cheered.

 What a creep, I sneered, beneath my neckerchief. What about that headstone? can't just leave it like that, put it back. Its sacrilege what we just did in that frenzy. Was it even a real grave?

I took a deeper breath, "Mr. Wells, permission to put the headstone back, mark of respect sir, won't take a minute,”

“Very well clean up that old witch's grave if you want, but take a flashlight, we are not waiting for you, Howay lads, let's get back to camp”.

Out of earshot, I mumbled, as they disappeared into the mist. “Thanks, Well’s, you’re a real human being!”

I hooked the rope off the headstone and pushed the slab toward the hole, clearing off the mud and moss as I went. This was a spendy headstone, or it was once. Polished Gray marble, with, looked like gold inlay lettering. Kind of expensive for some old lady who lived in the woods.

I started to read the inscription. Br, Bru, Brun, Bruno! Here lies Bruno?

Bruno, wasn’t that old man Bridgeton’s dog. 

Who?

Old man Bridgeton, the original owner of the estate. He grew up here. As a boy, he owned a saint Bernard puppy. I think he picked it up at the humane society. Anyway, he loved that dog more than anything. It saved the old man's life one day. Out hiking alone, for once, he tripped, breaking his ankle. Unable to move and with snow coming down, he would have perished, but Bruno found him deep in the woods. He comforted the old man, then snuggled up, keeping him warm until help arrived. Almost from that day until Bruno passed, that dog never left his side. That’s how you knew it was Bridgeton, Great big Bruno, always at his side. He knew the dog would have to be put down one day and so he promised when it was time, that he would bestow Bruno a proper send-off, A nice grave with a real headstone, to honor his lifelong friend. This was Bruno’s grave. I'm glad it wasn’t the white lady, but I bet come tomorrow, old man Bridgeton is going to raise hell with whoever dug up his beloved Bruno’s resting place.

I cleaned off the rest of the mud and read the whole inscription, 

From Commander James Bridgeton.

To Bruno, my dear St Bernard.

You saved my life my friend,

And my companion till the end.

 With this stone I honor yours,

Until we meet again.

 Sleep well, good buddy. Amen.

I reset the stone as best I could and tried to tidy up the area, I even found a daffodil and placed it softly at the foot of the headstone. Signing the cross, whispering a hail Mary, gave me comfort and well, you can never be too careful.

Wandering my way back to camp, I looked back over my shoulder thinking about the gravesite. it was getting light. I wondered, if he loved that dog so much, why was it buried way out there? and not at his home. Maybe it was that old city ruling. In those days you could only bury an animal outside the city limits, as the grave would attract local predators. I guess.

My feet were now icy cold, I stumbled over a fallen branch, it cracked, frozen solid, this was weird.

Hang on, what the?

Where's Camp?

Where's it gone.?

I spun around.

What the hell. There was no trash, no tents, no Scout bus, no scouts, nothing.

 That asshole Wells had left me flat! I couldn’t believe it. They had struck tents and left the site.

Had they?

Was I in the right spot? I looked around; my heart was racing. 

No trace of the site, no disturbed earth from the latrines, no black pit from the fire. I must be in the wrong spot, The mist continued to rise over the lake, gently dispersing in the morning sunlight. For the first time my breath came out as fog'

I need to get home; this doesn’t make any sense.

I hope all the scouts got back safe. They must have taken my kit with them.

I got to the lane end and half running through the last of the icy fog. Abus, a bus in sight!

Bus 39, struggling with the incline, slowed and allowed me to hop on.

This would take me right back into town!

The mist dissolved, we slowed, and I stepped off onto, mm, High Street?

Cold rain replaced the lingering frost.

I looked at my watch, 9,14am, what?

Across the street, number 58, was that Coopers?

Shit I was in trouble. “You’re late” boomed Mr. Cooper, as I stepped through the door.

 “Ok I heard you already,” under my breath obviously. 

“What was it this time, bus ran out of gas? driver got lost? don't tell me, you took a stupid shortcut over that Pipe bridge again?”

I shuddered, “Well I guess that drone scared the driver into taking a safer route.’ Want to thank that driver.” is that right?” 

That’s bullshit”, Wow Cooper, language!

“We haven't had a drone strike in almost 2 weeks now!” Wow he was pissed, but hang on, what about this morning?

“Ok get to work, I need those invoices by noon,” Coopers anger fizzled up his nose, and out his left ear, he tracked it with inky fingers.

Moments later at my desk. I needed to sit down and chill, get online, check that camp reservation for tonight. Libby breezed by with the day's newspaper. Libby was the most likeable person at Coopers Print. As office manager, handing out the paychecks was a weekly treat for all of us.!

Hey Corrigan, there's a story about the scouts...she dropped the print in my lap

I could barely register the headline,

"Local Scout Leader found dead."

"Popular Scout leader Mr. Arnold Wells' body was discovered this morning, on the abandoned railway, off High Street, in what Police are saying, suspicious circumstances. Apparently, Mr. Wells, had been missing for days. The gruesome remains discovered earlier today by a local walker.”

I looked up over my monitor, I needed some sanity.

“Hey Libby, Maybe I'm going crazy, but what day is this?”

She turned and flicked the auburn bangs out of her eyes, 

“Corrigan! it's Friday stupid, best day of the week!” Are you going camping tonight? last Scout camp before Halloween, right? You and your scout camps! “

“That’s right, Friday the 26th.just checking,” I mumbled.

 Wait,

“Well, you're going right to camp?” she whispered. 

“Mm, Mr. Wells was found dead. "

I barely understood what I just said. 

“Huh? I will not miss that creep, one bit. I'm sorry but he was nasty,” What happened to him anyway?” Libby pouted so well. 

I read the rest,

“Well, he was pretty chewed up, but they think a wolf, or some wild animal got him, out near Middle-wood. Somehow, he managed to crawl back along the railway, and took shelter underneath that old pipe bridge, they found him this morning.”

“Wow that’s some story” Libby’s velvet tones a delight to my ears.

“So how come you know so much about this?”

“Wasn’t it on the news, I mean, I don’t know how,”

“So, a dog just killed him for no reason? Sounds weird, that's not what I heard anyway. " She was pouting again!

“Oh, tell me more?” I quizzed her giddily. Everyone was always happy to see Libby, and Libby was always eager to hear the latest gossip from everyone and run with it. 

“Well,”, she began, I was hooked,

“Wells was a crooked realtor, He’d been squeezing retirement folks into shabby assisted living for years, His latest con was trying to swindle old man Bridgeton out of some disused land near middle wood lake. Wells had a plan to scare the locals, making out it was haunted. with some ghost story. The land would drop in value, forcing the old man to sell at a loss. Seems like those plans died with him.”

“Libby, you’re a genius!” What else could I say.

“What are you doing for lunch Corrigan?” what a smile she handed me.

“Call me Joe!” I smirked back through yellowing teeth, swiveling in my chair, trying to look cool, 

“So, where shall We go Libby?”

She pondered, “How about you go see a dentist!”, Ouch!

Sheepishly, I stared at my shoes, Oh shit, black paint.

 We really don’t see many wolves in these parts. No nothing like that. There are big dogs out there. In the woods? Maybe. Bruno is dead though, right? 

I must go visit with flowers; old man Bridgeton would appreciate that; I know where it is.