Apparition

Clint makes a fateful decision.

Dust boiled angrily skyward as the grader flattened the land beneath the gigantic yellow machine.

Clint Murphy wiped his damp forehead with a shirt-covered forearm after bringing the machine to a halt. Indian summer had kicked into high gear with daytime temperatures soaring into the mid 80s. That combined with a day devoid of breezes had made him sweat heavily most of the day.

Heat made him miserable but he tolerated it for the good paying job he had.

A smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he thought of his grandmother, God rest her soul. Hotter than a pig in the July sun would be her description of the day.

Clint chuckled and shook his head at Granny’s adage.

Wisdom he’d heard dozens of times and now missed desperately. Granny had gone home to meet her maker just over a decade ago. His eyes burned at the memory.

Time for a distraction.

He took a drink from an ice- cold bottle of water he retrieved from the six pack cooler he kept in the cab of any equipment he operated. Then he held the bottle against the nape of his neck with a satisfied sigh.

It wasn’t an air conditioner but it would certainly do in a pinch.

Once he drained the water he surveyed what remained of the mountain, eaten away for valuable minerals buried deep underground. It was now a flat expanse of ground suitable for the shopping center investors planned to build here.

Although he didn’t agree with destruction of historical sites or the majestic mountains, he knew it was honest work that paid the bills.

Clint climbed out of the cab before hopping onto the ground. It was time to head home. He could come back another day to retrieve the equipment. Now he wanted nothing more than a cold beer and a plate of whatever tasty food his wife Mirna had cooked today.

At that moment something unusual caught his eye—something he hadn’t noticed before, no doubt hidden from view by the previously mountainous terrain—a small opening beneath a cliff in a hill he hadn’t leveled yet.

Clint walked toward the anomaly at a leisurely pace.

He was convinced there would be nothing of interest inside having investigated sites like this enough times to know he’d come up empty handed.

For years he’d heard of old Civil War hideouts littered with collectible relics but had yet to score.

The opening was barely big enough for his six foot two inch frame but he managed to squeeze through with some acrobatics.

Once inside, a sense of unease began to build in his gut. A cobweb teased by a mysterious breeze fluttered inches from his face. Clint tore it down with a swipe of one hand. He had no desire to do the crazy windmill dance most people engaged in when an unexpected strand kissed their skin.

But that wasn’t the only thing that made him uneasy. A sense of foreboding crackled in the air in the same way as a lightning strike warned others of its impending arrival.

He shivered when a burst of frigid air caressed his sweaty body. The interior of the cave had to be hovering in the fifties, well below fall’s shirt-sleeve weather he enjoyed. Warm during the day, cool but not cold at night—just enough for long sleeved shirts and jeans. No jacket required.

A musty, closed in scent similar to what he’d smelled in basements assaulted his nostrils.

He felt a stillness devoid of sound lingering within much like the sensation he’d felt when stumbling upon old cemeteries, something that happened often in his line of work.

Clint shuddered when he thought about how those situations were dealt with by companies determined to develop land. Entire burial grounds, both Native American and settlers, were destroyed without question.

Nothing stood in the way of progress in today’s world.

And sadly, Clint had been part of some of the desecrations. He regretted it but there was no way to go back in time and change things.

It took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the velvety darkness filling the cave. Clint turned the flashlight on his cell phone hoping to reveal more details. The interior was no more than ten by ten feet or so, no larger than his office at business headquarters.

“What the hell?” he muttered.

Strewn haphazardly around the perimeter of the room were at least a dozen sizable wooden chests with leather hinges. The lids stood open revealing mounds of gold coins and handfuls of rainbow jewels, some nestled in the clasps of ornate jewelry.

He edged closer, eyes widening to see Indian artifacts stacked in front of the crates.

Unable to contain his fascination, Clint drew closer, reaching out with trembling hands to touch the headdress.

He knew from his brief forays into Native American history that the intricate detail of beads and feathers meant a person of great importance had owned it.

But why was it stored in a cave with other items of immense value?

The reasons didn’t matter. A small portion of the invaluable treasure here would make him a wealthy man—one who would no longer have to break his back operating heavy equipment in the harshest weather conditions for a pittance.

His phone’s battery level now sat in the red, which was surprising given it usually lasted throughout the day. An added problem was that dusk was rapidly approaching with golden light fading into dove.

Clint made the decision to take what he could carry. No one would be the wiser since the place would be leveled within days. He selected the artifacts in the best condition.

Gold coins and jewels filled the tail of his shirt, now turned into a basin by holding the hem in a hand.

His mother and grandmother had taught him the trick when they sat stringing and breaking beans during canning season. Not once did he think the trick would come in handy for something like this.

Clint made his way to the cave’s exit content in the knowledge he’d be a man of leisure in no time. Visions of white sandy beaches filled his head. Dreams that shattered with the faint sound of scuffling footsteps reaching his ears.

The atmosphere around him changed, the hairs on his arms standing erect. But what triggered his body’s reaction?

A shiver raced up his spine as the temperature dropped significantly lower; so much so that his breath fogged the air.

You desecrate a holy place.

The words echoed in his mind rather than being heard.

He stood mere feet from the outside world but something demanded he turn around.

Pivoting on the ball of one foot with agonizing slowness, he tried to avoid the inevitable, his eyes stinging as gooseflesh covered his body from head to toe.

An icy ball of terror weighed heavy in his gut. Its frigid tendrils unfurled internally like the tentacles of a giant octopus, reaching deep, crushing life giving air from his lungs.

An Indian apparition clutching a staff decorated with feathers stood there, the chests and artifacts faintly visible through its form.

Dark eyes filled with fire caught and held his gaze.

He had desecrated a sacred place with his presence, by taking the treasures. His hands trembled so violently some of the bounty in his shirt spilled onto the ground.

There was no way to make amends.

He was cursed now.

The apparition’s arms stretched toward him.

An ancient voice tinged with rage and power released words that etched their way onto his soul. “You will die by a puff of wind.”

Clint dropped everything, coins tinkling as they landed on the rocky ground. “There!” he shouted, voice tremulous and weak. “Take it back.”

“Too late,” the apparition grinned. “Your greed is your downfall.”

Clint backed toward the exit, a hand searching behind him for the opening.

He stumbled, falling into the light unceremoniously with a high-pitched shriek.

He raced to his truck swearing to never speak of what he saw and heard within the cave.

***

Years later

“You got that tire changed yet?” The truck driver groused as he scratched his paunchy belly.

Clint bit back a curse, glancing sideways at the man who was the epitome of the deadly sin sloth. The trucker could have helped change the tire. Instead, he chose to lean against the wall feet away belching occasionally.

Clint shook his head and got back to work.

It took Herculean effort to get the massive rim in place but he managed.

The torque wrench whined with each lug nut he tightened into place.

Clint leaned closer, swearing at several bulges forming on the exterior tire wall. A brand new tire.

Aware of the danger it presented, he started to pull away to a safe distance.

Too late Clint heard the hissing sound of air escaping around the rim.

Boom!

Everything blurred, slowing to a crawl in Clint’s world in the same way movies slow down fight scenes. Surrealism in its finest moment.

The explosion rocked the building, dismantling the interior of the bay with shocking ease. Even the disgusting trucker was thrown onto the grease-stained concrete where he landed with a shouted expletive.

Clint was catapulted backwards by the force of the blast.

Shrapnel sliced into his face and neck, blood gushing from fatal wounds to firm a morbid 98 degrees Fahrenheit of necklace. He’d never been fond of adornment but no one could avoid the Grim Reaper’s calling card.

Not him. Not anyone.

As he lay on the icy concrete, Clint’s vision faded to black, a final thought passing through his dying mind.

He had forgotten the apparition’s fatalistic warning, not that he could have escaped his fate. An ending set in stone from the instant he made the decision to sully the sacred place.

You will die by a puff of wind.

And so he did.