Free Fraidy Hole: A Sheriff Lester P. Morrison Novel by Warren Williams

none the less. People were passing by, people that could help her get out of the dungeon. However small the chances, to not cry for help, to give up and accept her fate, to die there, alone in the darkness, was definitely not in Melissa Parker’s makeup.
    At what seemed like mid-afternoon—she really missed not having a watch—she ’d heard the approach of dual exhausts, something like a kid her age might drive; chrome wheels, low profile tires, the kind of cars she saw and yearned for in the school parking lot. The kind of car she had dreamed about since she turned sixteen , but knew that her folks wouldn’t (her dad) or couldn’t (her mom) buy for her.
    When the car sounded close, she swallowed, tried to work up a little spit for her throat, and started to yell once again. She filled her lungs and put her mouth to the crack…and stopped.
    Oh crap. What if it’s him, the rapist, coming back for more? She froze at the thought.
    It could be him, sure, checking to see if I’m dead or alive.
    Scrambling down the steps, she raced blindly to the back of the cellar, the darkest part, crouched down and listened, trying to think it through.
    Lots of possibilities here. He knows I’m alive and he’s coming back to rape me again…or kill me. Or both. Then again, maybe he can’t live with what happened, leaving me down here like he did, and he’s coming back to let me out. No,no, that’s not gonna happen is it Melissa? He turns you loose so you can call the cops and have him thrown in prison? Fat chance. Think, think.
    But just as with the trucks, the smooth sounding pipes quickly faded away, then silence.
    Well, okay. No rapist then but no rescue either. Need to prepare. Need to find something, anything for a weapon, a big stick maybe.
    She dreaded the coming darkness, another night in the hole. There had been no sounds from the back of the cellar since daylight, nothing moving, no rustling of dry leaves. That, in itself, was a good sign , but the girl had the feeling that whatever had made those little scurry noises earlier, was still there. After all, there was only one way out, and nothing had passed her on the stairs, nothing she had seen anyway. At least she had the army cot; she could stay off the ground tonight— Thank God for small miracles —but was anything else back there, something she had missed, something she could use? This would be the time for the candle, she thought, before night comes and I can’t see anything at all. She retrieved the jar from the bottom step, opened it, and inspected the candle. T here was quite a bit of it lef t , but how long would it last? Certainly not all night.
    I have to conserve it, use it only when I get scared or hear something spooky. Listen to me. What am I saying? I’m scared now!
    She took a single match from the box and touched the head of it to the striking area. The match flared on the first try. Even though there was no breeze inside the cellar, Melissa instinctively protected the flame with the cup of her hand and held her breath as she touched the tiny blaze to the black dot in the center of the candle. The wick accepted the fire, at first, and then lost it, the single trail of smoke mocking her effort. The match burned her finger and she was forced to drop it. For one terrifying moment, she thought the leaves would catch fire and burn her alive, like being baked in an oven. It didn’t happen. She counted the matches, six left.
    Not enough wick, that’s the problem.
    She went to the floor with her hands, moving the leaves, searching, feeling, until she found a twig. It was small and rotted , but it would have to do. There was no time to find another. The light was nearly gone . She had to hurry. Back at the top of the stairs and oh , so carefully, Melissa used the tip of the twig to dig out the wax from around the wick. When about a quarter of an inch was showing , s he took another match from the box . Five left. She closed her eyes for a moment , took a