Free Terror at Hellhole by L. D. Henry

streak of lightning zigzagged down the middle of the dim street, and dull thunder rolled overhead. Another spurt of lightning lit the intersection at Second Street, and he saw two gray figures standing on each side of the road. He blinked his eyes hard until he could make out their ominous shapes in the dark, blocking his path. Tall they were, dark and silent they stood, and a twinge of fear touched his spine, for one of the shadows carried a large war club and the other held a ceremonial spear.
    â€œWho are you?” he cried. “Speak up! I’ll have you know I’m Judge Morcum!”
    There was no answer, no did either figure move. Another crinkle of heat lightning framed them in the gray light for a moment.
    â€œS-speak up, you hear?” and when there was no answer, he tried again: “W-what do you want?”
    The dark shapes remained silent and a grim foreboding touched him like a cold hand. His eyes, darted right and left, but nothing presented itself.
    Maybe, he thought, if he walked away they’d let him alone, maybe they wouldn’t bother him. He angled off to his left toward a darkened house as fast as his whiskey-wobbly legs would go. He reached the back of the house in safety, then staggered along the fringe of the hill. By keeping in this direction he would pass behind the blacksmith’s shop on Laguna Street and arrive at his own backyard. The path was rocky and he stumbled several times, falling to his knees in his haste. He looked back, straining his eyes but he saw nothing, nor were there any sounds that he was being followed.
    He dusted off his trousers. Probably just his imagination, he thought, or maybe a couple of cowboys standing out in the dark street. Somewhat relieved, he started homeward again along the base of the hill.
    The storm evidently was passing without dropping any rain and the lightning was dissipating in its wake. A flash lit up the distant sky, and his heart almost stopped for the two specters were now standing twenty feet ahead of him. With a strangled cry, he started to run up the slope, slipping and sliding, scrambling on all fours he labored up the hill until he reached an old picket fence. Clutching the railing for support, he gulped air into pumping lungs while he listened for sounds of pursuit in the dark night.
    Suddenly he realized that the fence he was clinging to was part of the cemetery located on the hill behind the blacksmith’s shop, and that below lay the safety of his own home. But heart pounding, sweat pouring profusely from his whiskey-sodden body, he was again aware of the dark specters moving ominously toward him, their weapons held menacingly in front of them.
    Cringing, he moved with his back along the fence, his hands feeling the way along the wooden pickets as he went. He paused at the open gateway, his heart thumping in his chest in abject fear when one of the dark specters appeared directly in front of him. Terrified, Morcum’s eyes darted to the right, seeing the black shape of the second figure. Mouth agape, he backed through the cemetery gateway, moving backward until he bumped a wooden grave-marker. Still peering toward the dark figures, he backed sideways until he stumbled against a mound of another grave, falling to his knees.
    He raised his glance toward the pathway, now hearing footsteps where before there had been none. What sort of devils were these? Morcum cried out in panic: “Who are you? L-leave me alone—please!”
    But the footsteps kept coming, slowly, precisely, as inexorably as judgment day. Heart palpitating fiercely, he scrambled to his feet, eyes searching the night for a place to hide, but it was too dark. Then footsteps crunched to his right, joining the sounds in front of him as they herded him farther into the cemetery.
    Terrified, he sought to cry out for help but fear had constricted his vocal cords and he was only able to whimper hoarsely. He turned and ran, stumbling, bulling his way