The Darkest Deed

The summer sun hung high in the air, fiercely extending its merciless rays onto the dry, beaten soil. Nothing dare make an appearance at this hour, with no shield to reflect the burning light. This day was heat ridden, yet solemn. Disregarding the temperature, a cold feeling lingered along a dusty, barren road. No one was in sight, no one but a single man bearing nature's scorn upon his naked neck. The man hung his head over the ground, staring at his shadow while stumbling slightly across the rugged terrain.

Oh what a miserable fool. One should know better than to be out on such a day. His suffering did not last long however — a house appeared somewhere along the endless path. Not a single soul lurked around the seemingly empty structure, but it would have to do. Looking freshly painted and quaintly decorated, the setting seemed out of place. There were rose bushes along the sides of the delicate looking home and a hound rested under a shady tree, the only tree within several hundred feet. Upon seeing the stranger, the hound did nothing. The heat was too great and the shade was limited.

The man, now completely exhausted and possibly delusional from the high temperature, approached the steps of the veranda. Two knocks on the door would suffice. There was no strength left for a third. A woman of forty or so answered the door hesitantly. Her skeptical eyes briefly studied the stranger's face. Something told her this man was not a threat and filled with pity, so she invited him inside. Introductions were recited and names were exchanged. The woman then brought water to the stranger. The home was dark and eerie. Everything was neat and orderly as if someone expected were to arrive at any given moment. The table in the dining room was set and the kitchen looked as if it hadn't been used for days. The place was spotless.

All looked pleasant except for one thing — a sheet hung on the wall behind one of the dining chairs. The woman sighed, seeing that the man had noticed the covering and began to tear up. A little girl disappeared months ago, leaving a single mother behind to grieve in loneliness. She had assumed her daughter was dead after searching in vain for what seemed like an eternity. Now, the mirrors were covered as the woman mourned the loss of her only child. The stranger's tired body now felt heavier because of his saddened heart. The thought of losing something so innocent and dear was inconceivable, unbearable. Since the man had nowhere to go and the heat was far too great to endure, the woman offered for him to stay the night. The man agreed and the woman led him to the guest room towards the back of the house. The room consisted of a single bed with just one pillow and blanket. A covered mirror hung on the wall across from the plain setting. Another gloomy reminder of the tragedy so long endured by the lonely, once mother. She turned away, walking back towards the kitchen and dining area to prepare the evening meal.

Three quarters of an hour passed and after a brief nap, the stranger was awakened by the smell of sweet, home cooking. He raised his head and sat up, realizing that hunger had set in, he followed the odor to the dining room. Mashed potatoes, green beans, and a roast awaited the malnourished man along with another individual. A second guest sat at the table and stared blankly at the approaching, first guest. The new stranger rose to shake the hand of the first man and smiled a sly, hesitant smile while doing so. His shirt was slightly torn and grass stained. Chunks of dry mud nearly covered the boots he wore. As they shook hands, the first man couldn't help but notice the long, defined scar along the second guest's forearm. The woman returned seconds later and briefly introduced the dirty looking man as her gardener. Introductions were given a second time and the three strangers sat down to eat. Little conversation took place, the solemn feeling that occupied the house when the first man had arrived was still very much present. Once dinner concluded, the gardener bid farewell and left the house, leaving the woman and the stranger alone once again. The man offered to help the woman clean up, but she objected, insisting he go to bed and rest. Respecting her wishes, he said goodnight and returned to his room.

Not long after washing up a bit, he laid down on the petite bed and fell into a deep slumber, exhausted. It wasn't long before he found himself dreaming. Violent and disturbing images occupied his mind, images he couldn't explain. In the dream, a little girl about seven or eight cried out for his help. Ironically, she turned away, running and crying hysterically. He began to follow her but she had already disappeared into the darkness of the night. The man awoke now more restless than before. The stories about the woman's daughter pierced his subconscious, especially since no one had ever found her living or deceased. She was just gone. Two quarters of an hour passed and the man reluctantly returned to sleep, the dark imaginings of his dreams took hold once again. This time, more graphic and intense, the dream appeared to pick up where it had left off. The little girl cried out again and this time the man ran after her.

He followed and reached out in vain. His actions outweighed his intentions and despite his effort to reach her, he couldn't. Instead, he came to a dead end and the child was nowhere to be found. All that remained was foliage which now covered parts of the ground. Something else caught the man's eye, a giant boulder which seemed to suddenly appear sat off to the side of the trail that he had followed, unaware. The dream ceased as the man woke again with a start. It was morning. The bright, crimson sun peered over the mountains, breaking through the dark of the early morning. Just when the man thought the dream had dissipated, a soft voice whispered a chilling message in his ear, the voice of a child."Things never seem how they are. Trust not the man with the forthright scar".

Immediately, the image of the woman's gardener came to the stranger's mind. The mysterious voice could be pointing to none other, for there was only one scarred man. A chill ran down the man's spine as he lay in bed, frozen to the core with a mixture of fear and anxiety. Thinking about the dream and message he had just encountered, his mind went rampant. Anger consumed him at the thought of someone murdering an innocent child. The more he thought, the more he plotted to find a way to question the man behind the evil deed. A knock at the door caused his thoughts to disperse and the woman peered in to inform him that breakfast had been prepared. The man rolled out of bed, down the hall to the dining room just as he had the previous evening. Once again, the gardener sat at the table and the man looked upon him with skeptical eyes of a newfound suspicion. Breakfast was consumed and the gardener thanked the woman for the meal, then he was gone.

Without much hesitation, the man thanked the woman for breakfast as well and announced that he was going for a walk but would return shortly. The woman acknowledged him and he exited the house. From the veranda he could see the cold-hearted man pushing a wheelbarrow of yard tools. After locking eyes for what seemed like an eternity, the gardener went his own way. He wandered to the back of the house and parked the wheelbarrow several yards away. He then lifted a shovel from the mess of tools and headed off farther away from the house. The suspicions of the first man grew, causing inner tension. He followed the devious gardener to his destination — a dry riverbed behind thick trees and bushes. Images of the dream consumed his mind as things began to feel more and more familiar. There was just one thing missing, the final element to the scene; the single, large boulder. Just when the man began to doubt whether the place really existed, there it was. Standing one foot high and four feet wide was a heavy, smoke colored stone.

The gardener turned and seeing the man, jolted, taken aback with surprise. He hesitated to act out his immediate reaction which would have been to swing the shovel. His manner remained edgy and guarded. Oddly enough, he turned his back on the stranger and sauntered towards the stone where he proceeded to dig around it. The first man felt cold as suspicions and accusations ran wild in his mind. But he had to be sure, he couldn't be unsure. In the politest of ways, he offered the gardener his hand in the labor and the two dug deeper and deeper until, finally, the stone could be moved. Nothing remained in the stone's place, but the job wasn't done. They dug and dug until the gardener's shovel came across something solid; a long, narrow crate. The stomach of the first man dropped as the evil gleam of the gardener's eye caught his attention. In a panic, the man swiped the shovel and swung at the guilty man before him. He fell to the ground, dead from the impact. The stranger fell to his knees in despair. What had he done?

There was only one thing left to do — confirm his suspicions for his own sanity. With vengeance on his mind and grief in his heart, the man struggled to find an opening to the casket like box. His fingers grew weary from the effort. It was nailed shut. He picked up the shovel again and drew back the slats with the sharp edge until, finally, it was open. The site of what was inside shocked and repulsed him: remains of a small human, broken and decaying. The flesh was dissolved about the limbs and face exposing alabaster bone as well as many open wounds. The smell was unbearable and the view, worse. Along the inside walls of the crate were shards of broken glass. Grief-stricken, the stranger gently seized the glass between his fingers and looked into it. The reflection startled him, as he gazed into the face of a man with a jagged looking scar running clear across his face.