The Treasure

A visit to the graveyard results in an unexpected find.

Day 2: “Be afraid... Be very afraid.” — The Fly (1986)


"Slow down, Bobby! You're gonna kill us before we even reach the graveyard!"

"Yeah, well, if I did, Steve, you'd be right at home."

Bobby was tempted to step on the accelerator even more after that remark, but he lifted his foot from the gas pedal, and the growling V8 engine immediately dropped into a smooth purr.

The gang rolled to a stop before the towering, rust-tinged wrought iron gates of the cemetery. Bobby, Steve, and Corbin unfolded their lanky bodies out of the cramped, cherry-red and obsidian-black '05 Trans Am. Though she was old, she was a shining, classic beauty with a deep, rumbling idle that Bobby tended to as if she were his favorite girl in all the world.

They didn't waste any time lighting up the vape; the stout smell and thick smoke quickly filled the air. Bobby, meanwhile, produced a nearly full plastic bottle of Fireball whiskey—the syrupy cinnamon liquor sloshing temptingly inside. After all, being in the graveyard was always a bit more fun with a little buzz.

"So," Corbin said, running a hand over his thick, slick, raven-black hair. "Where do ya'll want to head to first?"

Steve took a long, burning swig of the Fireball, let out a short, guttural cough, and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "Let’s head to our angel first," he voiced, already turning and sprinting across the wet grass, his laughter swallowed by the silence of the dead.

The angel cast a somber shadow over the small family plot. It's forlorn, marble glaze fixed upon the graves themselves. Ten years earlier, a young woman and her child had their lives stolen in a brutal single-car crash. Mrs. Jennings had lost control of her car, slamming into a hundred-year-old oak. Mother and daughter were killed on impact.

That, however, did nothing to lessen the pain and agony of the only survivor: The beloved husband and father. His emotional wounds would never heal; his heart remained shattered. A soul-tearing testament to his profound, unbearable loss.

The guys settled under the seven-foot-high angelic statue, finishing off the bottle of Fireball.

"Hey, guys, look!" Bobby's voice pierced through the silence of the cemetery. His eyes were wide and bright—whether from excitement at his discovery or the lingering buzz of cheap liquor, was anyone's guess. Steve and Corbin turned, their gazes following the line of Bobby's index finger. A glimmer of gold from underneath some of the dirt churned up from under the weeping angel statue. All three started scraping away the loose soil in a quiet, but frenzied act. A thick-banded wedding ring and a shiny man's gold cross necklace with a nice, solid chain emerged.

"Oh wow! Look at this beauty. I bet they're both 24K gold. Even being buried, they sparkle!"

Corbin's face was clouded with unease, "Maybe we should put it back, Bobby. After all, you know it must have come from Mr. Jennings, the man who lost his wife and daughter. Man, I ain't never seen a man so torn up for so long after losing someone. Let's put them back and bury them deeper, so no one else will find them."

Bobby scoffed, his eyes shooting bullets at Corbin. "Are you crazy? Do you know how much these are worth? Hell, even if they're 14K, they're worth a pretty penny. What do you say, Steve? Should we keep them and sell them or put them back?"

Steve ran a nervous hand over his beard stubble, "I don't know, Man. I can see Corbin's point of view. But really, they're not doing anyone good being buried. And he won't even know they're gone. What he doesn't know won't hurt him, and the extra money would be ripe.

Greed took over, and they pocketed the gold. "Let's roll," Steve said, feeling uneasy.

Hidden behind a massive, gnarled oak tree, a man stood buried in its shadow. The graveyard was his sanctuary when the night terrors became too much to bear. He watched the disrespectful scene unfold, his blood starting to boil. Just when he was ready to make his move, the three teens took off at a full run, jumped into their car, and were already kicking up the gravel as they high-tailed it down the road, leaving nothing but dust in their wake.

Mr. Jennings wasn't concerned. It gave his grief something new to focus on. With a razor-like sharpness, he began to formulate a plan. He recognized one of the boys. The boy who was the greediest of the three. Better yet, he knew where he lived. He'd make sure they regretted this night. Especially Bobby.

After paying a brief visit to his wife and daughter's grave, and promising to get back his beloved's wedding ring and the silver cross necklace—his daughter's last Father’s Day gift—stolen by those hoodlums, with new determination, he headed for his car—no time like the present to start staking out the little thieves.

Making a quick trip to Circle K, he purchased two large coffees. The caffeine would do its job, even if one eventually went cold. He headed for Bobby's house, a ranch-style home with pale blue siding. He parked a couple of lots down in front of an empty house with a peeling, 'For Sale' sign. There he settled down, ready to stay as long as it took.

After several hours, Bobby emerged from his front door and headed for his car. Mr. Jenning's fingers tightened on the steering wheel. He started his car and, at a safe distance, pulled behind Bobby. A burning excitement coursed through him. A feeling he hadn't experienced since the accident that ruined his life and shredded his soul.

The accident was only supposed to maim his wife, not kill her. And certainly not kill his daughter. How was he supposed to know that neither of them would take the time to fasten their seat belts? Everyone, everyone knows that no matter how big a hurry you're in, you fasten your damn seat belt!

Mr. Jennings watched Bobby’s car peel away from the curb. His lips stretched into a thin smile. He needed all three of them together, and he needed access to that car. His plan was simple, quick, and reliant on a perfect execution.

Bobby pulled over and leaned on the horn. A minute later, two forms exited from the house and scunched into the backseat. Jennings checked his rearview mirror, then followed the boys as they navigated the back roads toward the isolation of the National Park's eastern hiking trail. Couldn't have picked a better spot, he thought.

The moment the trio's voices faded into the trees, Mr. Jennings was moving. The air was cool and still as he dropped to the ground and slid beneath the chassis of their vehicle. He worked with practiced speed, his hand finding the flexible brake line. His knife flashed. He didn't want a sudden failure; he wanted a slow, creeping death. A small, precise cut. Just enough to ensure the brakes would last long enough to build speed, then fail completely on the steep, winding descent that plunged into Dead Man’s Curve.

Finished, he straightened, dusted off his trousers, and took the final piece of his performance: the note. He slipped it under the wiper blade like a parking ticket, a personal message of terror for all three. Then, he was gone.

An hour later, the boys emerged, flushed and laughing. Bobby saw the paper. He grabbed it and read the chilling words to his friends: "If I were you, I'd be afraid. Very afraid."

Corbin’s laugh died. "What is that? Seriously?"

"Come on, man, it's a joke," the third boy scoffed. "Some idiot recognized the car and thinks he's scary."

"Yeah, probably," Bobby said, but his voice lacked conviction. He crushed the note, tossing the wad over his shoulder. They got in, and the metal doors clanged shut.

Then they headed down the road toward Dead Man's Curve.


1340 Words

Written For ""13" (2025 Ed) - CLOSED"