Every small town has a horror story. Ours was the house at the end of Weedy Road. Unsolved murders lend themselves to folklore and for us, the killer evolved into a gruesome figure; almost reptilian. It became a teenage rite of passage to visit the road on a moonless night, and so we went; me, Jack, and Harry. Jack drove his ’73 Impala, Harry sat shotgun, and I was in the back. The old Weedy house looked more like its name-sake than ever before.
We sat while the car idled.
“Turn the engine off, otherwise, it doesn’t count.” Harry knew all the rules.
Jack reluctantly moved his hand toward the ignition, paused, then turned the key.
The silence was earsplitting. No one dared breath.
I jumped out of my skin when Harry spoke.
“I knew it was a gag,” said Harry. “Let’s get out of here.”
Jack twisted the key to the right.
Our breathing intensified as Jack frantically turned the key. Miraculously, the engine started.
Gunning the accelerator, Jack reversed and raced toward town. Another tale for 1st hour on Monday.
Except for the part where I saw something standing in the middle of the road.
Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a short 200-word story inspired by a photograph. This week’s photo is provided by A Mixed Bag.