Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I'm a Small Town Sheriff. We're in EMERGENCY LOCKDOWN | Scary Stories

Episode Date: November 15, 2023

Get out.      Story from JessumGui  Make sure to check out more of their work at u/JessumGui                        Original Post: Never Get Between a Man and His Dog : r/nosleep  Original YouTube link: I'm a Small Town Sheriff. We're in EMERGENCY LOCKDOWN       For more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube  Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | Patreon Merch: lighthousehorror.com  Music: Lucas King - YouTube Myuu - YouTube  Incompetech Darren Curtis Music - YouTube  Thank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every week, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

Eight years in the department, and I've never even drawn my gun, let alone shot anybody. But there I was, staring over the muzzle of my Smith & Wesson at a man's body. His blood spread in a pool on the dirty linoleum. To be fair, he was trying to stab me with a really big hunting knife. It was just after nine, only two hours left on my afternoon ship, when the call came in. Crazed Man with Knife was how the 911 dispatcher put it. The incident was occurring at the Quickey Mart down on Center Street. I arrived first.

Tony Alvarez, the other deputy on duty that night, came barreling into the parking lot, maybe ten seconds behind me. This isn't a big town. There's usually only two of us on patrol at any given time. Doug Elliott, a local guy I know from church, was standing in the lot. He was pointing at the store entrance with one arm and windmilling with the other, like a third base coach waving me home. Inside, Lindsay Knop was crouched and crying in the corner by a cash register.

Blood seeped between her fingers. Her hand was clamped down on a nasty gash running half the length of her forearm. And in front of the counter was a man I didn't recognize. He was hopping from one foot to the other and shouting about waking something up. What really drew my intention, though, was the huge hunting knife that he was waving in the air. It was stained with blood. Probably Lindsay's, I thought. Whoa, hold on there, fella.

I said, one hand motioning for calm while the other hovered near my pistol. All right, how about you put that knife down and we talk about whatever's got you so upset? He said, it was the best I could come up with off the cuff. Verbal de-escalation, it's never been my strong suit. We woke it up. He said, You understand? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, it's awake.

Now he didn't look like the type of guy who'd go on a rampage like this. Seem pretty normal. I mean, you know, other than the giant bloody knife. He was clean-shaven, with neatly trimmed brown hair, clean clothes, and he was wearing a dark-blue windbreaker with a Fortian global logo on the left breast. Now I didn't know anything about Fortyenne Global. All I knew was that they were the outfit that bought the old Ogden Mine in the foothills behind the town.

The guy looked exactly like what you would expect, some middle manager and a big corporation to look like. Except for his face. The only words that came to my mind to describe it are gleeful malice. That's what I told the sheriff when I gave my statement. I was kind of worried that might have been a little over the top for an official report, but none of that matters now, I guess. Well, no, I don't understand, I answered him, trying to be all calm and soothing. But, you know, I tell you what, if you put that knife down, you could explain that.

You could explain it to me. Maybe we could even get some coffee or a raspberry icy, something. I am the messenger, he shrieked. And he lunged at me. The knife arched down towards my head. Now I have no actual memory of shooting him. One second I was watching that blood-stained knife coming straight from my face, and the next I was looking through a haze of gun smoke at the dead body.

My ears were ringing and the stench of blood and cordite were filling my nostrils. Alvarez handcuffed the body of the Fortian guy. I know it sounds silly, but it's protocol. Once the perp was secure, Tony checked for a pulse. After 30 seconds or so, he shook his head and went to check on Lindsay. The first aid kit under the counter didn't have much more than band-aids and aspirin. So we bandaged her wound with feminine hygiene pads and duct tape he found on the store shelves. While he did all of that, I just kind of stood there.

I don't think I'm really cut out for this job. My ears were still ringing from the muzzle blast when Sheriff Jenkins arrived on scene. He had to shout for me to hear him. He'd gone off duty hours ago, but he was still in uniform. Well, sounds like he was justified. He said. Once he had eased into my field of vision and gotten my attention. It's not a good idea to startle the dazed guy while he's still holding a loaded gun.

Huh? Sounded like he was talking to me underwater. I talked to Alvarez. He said. speaking loudly and enunciating each word. He says it was a righteous shoot. Same with a witness outside. Of course, I'm sure all that will be backed up by the store of surveillance cameras.

Investigation shouldn't take long at all, but until then, I will need your duty piece. Sheriff Jenkins, I'm pointing at the gun hanging loosely from my fingers. Careful now. He warned as I handed it over. I noticed my finger was still inside the trigger guard. Hey, uh, sheriff? Tony called from where he was kneeling beside Lindsay.

She's going to need stitches. EMS should be here by now, but I can't get dispatch. Something else our town was too small for. It was a hospital. There was an urgent. care on East Main Street, but all they really did was write scripts for antibiotics and pass out cold compresses. Besides, they closed at five.

For anything more serious or after hours, you had to go to the ER over at the river at Crestview Memorial and Shago. It was only a 15-minute drive or so, so it's not enough for people to get too worked up over. Try your cell phone then. The sheriff suggested. Tony held up his phone. I already did. No service.

It's the damnedest thing. It was all working just fine a few minutes ago, but now. Bupkis. I checked my phone, mostly because I needed something to do with my hands. My display also showed no service, and I was down to 11% on my battery. By the look on Sheriff's face, he didn't have any service either. The Sheriff held up a finger.

He then strode around the counter and tried the landline beside the cash register. He listened for a moment and then tapped the disconnect button several times. He shook his head. We had no way to communicate with anyone beyond shouting distance. Sheriff Jenkins told Alvarez to take Lindsay over. to Crestview Memorial in his squad car, and that while he was there, to get in contact with the state police and the coroner, investigating shootings and removing bodies, it was well above our pay grade. Complete strangers would decide if I'd acted in self-defense, or if I was a murderer.

While Alvarez was doing all that, the sheriff said he'd take my statement here. He apologized for making me do it at the scene, but there was no way around it. It had to be secured for the evidence, but he couldn't let me go until I gave the statement. With the phones and radio is both out, he couldn't even get a hold of the on-call deputies to take over at the Quickey Mart so he could do this at the station. In the end, I explained just how and why I shot a man dead, all while standing over his body, careful not to step in his blood. When I got to the part about his expression of gleeful malice, I pointed at his face, even in death, he was still wearing it. When we were done, he told me to go

home, try to get some sleep. And for the love of all that's wholly, don't drink. The state boys would probably want to get their own statement when they got here. If I had alcohol on my breath, they might get the idea that I started drinking before the shooting, not after. As I stepped out of the Quicaymart, Alvarez came screeching into the parking lot again, Lindsay still in the front seat of the cruiser.

He ran into the store, motioning for me to follow. Bridges were closed. He said, breathless as it ran past. Both of them. Now our town since nestled in a bend on the Clarion River were bordered on three sides by water. The only ways in and out of the town

are the South Street Bridge, which leads to Shago, and with the tree-covered hills that we like to call mountains behind us, we are pretty isolated. The Ogden mine was about as far as anyone dared go inland, and not many folks would go even that far. The places always had a kind of spooky feel to it. My grandfather claimed that the mine had an escape tunnel that came out in the hills. He said you could walk almost the whole way there underground.

He worked there for years, right up until they closed it in the mid-90s. I'm not sure I believe a lot of the things my grandfather told me, especially when he'd been drinking. Bridges are closed, Alvarez repeated to the sheriff. Once inside, mopping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. They got soldiers, man in barricades on both. They're not letting anybody through. The army closed the bridges.

Sheriff Jenkins asked. Now, why the hell would they do that? It ain't the army, Alvarez said. private contractors, I think, Blackwater or Aegis defense, something like that. How do you know? Because I was in the army and they ain't it. Alvarez explained. They got trucks with electronic warfare jammers too.

That's why the radios and cell phones don't work. They're jamming the signals. I've seen trucks just like that when I was in. Alvarez's eyes went wide then. He gasped, then let out a long, low, groan, before just falling on his face. He landed beside the man in the Fortian Windbreaker. Blood welled from a wound between his shoulder blights, adding to the already coagulating pool on the floor.

Lindsay stood behind him, holding the hunting knife in a white-knuckled grip. Its blade was slick and red. I never saw her pick up the knife. Come to think of it. I never even saw she came back into the store. It's awake, she said. And it's coming back. I have to tell people.

I am the messenger. Now, Lindsay. Sheriff Jenkins started. taking a step towards her, and she spun and slashed the blade across his stomach. He stared in shock for a moment, before a wave of red washed down the front of his uniform trousers. Lindsay turned the blade on me, then. My hand snatched at my holster, but he was empty. Her face twisted into that same deranged smile as the Fortian guy.

She whipped the knife high above her head, spattering the front of my shirt with blood. And then she charged. I froze. Like a deer in the headlights, I just stood there. My mind is a complete blank. And then for the second time that night, my ears rang from the blast of a gunshot. Sheriff Jenkins dropped to the floor, landing with his back against his head. the ATM. Blood poured out of the gash in his stomach. In one hand, he held his still-smoking

service pistol. The other clutched his wound, desperately trying to hold on to what life remained inside him. His eyes lost their focus, and his chin dropped to his chest. Sheriff Jenkins toppled over sideways. I couldn't help but retching. I can't be sure. how long I stood there in a puddle of my own puk. I was surrounded by dead bodies, but my ears had stopped ringing. The sea of blood closed and around me. I leapt over the spreading pool in front of me, and I managed to stumble out into the parking lot. Heat slapped me in the face. My legs were shaking so bad, I barely made it up to the patrol car, and that's when I heard it. A voice from the sky. Lockdown, all residents are instructed to shelter in place. Violations of this order will not be

tolerated. Deadly force has been authorized. A rectangular object hovered over the traffic light at the intersection of Center Street and Timble Avenue. It was a drone and not the kind you'd find at a hobby shop. It was mounted with some kind of PA system. The drone moved off to the next intersection and repeated the message. Why were we on lockdown? And who the hell authorized deadly force? I climbed into my cruiser and I headed for the South Street Bridge. It was the closest. As I pulled under the bridge, a spotlight on the far end blinded me. I stopped and stepped halfway out of the cruiser. I squinted at the light, shielding my eyes.

Sheriff's Department, I said, pointing at my badge with my free hand. What the hell is going on here? You are in violation of the curfew order. You have 30 seconds to comply. Deadly Force has been authorized, said the same amplified voice I'd heard from the drone. By who? I said back. Who authorized deadly force?

Seconds. Whose authority are you under? I said. I tried for a stern commanding tone, but I think I missed. There was some sort of commotion at the far end of the bridge. This time, the voice behind the spotlight, wasn't amplified, but I could hear it anyway. Weapons free. It said. Orange light strobed above the river. It was followed a split second later by a sound like tearing cloth. Their drones were

armed. The spotlight swung to my right and it angled down toward the water. Illuminated in its harsh light was a bullet-riddled yellow kayak. It was clumsily spray painted with hot rod flames and a body sat slumped in the seat. I couldn't see his face, but it was T.J. I knew it was T.J. Colmes. I recognized that kayak. He must have been trying to escape lockdown. The kayak was taking on water through all the bullet holes. It rolled over and started to sink. and T.J.'s body floated free in his life jacket. The drone shot him another round of bullets, just to be sure.

I think it was then that I started to scream, but then the drone turned its gun on me. Bullets stitched across the hood of my squad car, smashing holes in the windshield. I was able to duck before the gun cut me in half, but just barely. The gunfire paused, and my flight reflex kicked in. I shout out from behind my cruiser.

The drone fired two more burst after me, and then it fell silent. Maybe the gun jumped or ran out of ammo, I thought. Maybe they were just trying to scare me off. Half a block down the street, I moved into a residential area. I cut through backyards and I snuck across alleyways, always keeping an ear out for the drones,

and I worked my way home. I didn't know where else to go. I saw nobody else outside. All the houses were just completely dark. Their doors and windows were tightly closed even in this heat. I could still hear intermittent rips of machine gunfire coming from the river, though. So not everybody was staying inside. The drones must have some kind of night vivid.

or heat sensors, I thought. How else were they able to spot TJ on the water before they put the spotlight on him? And I knew I had to get out of town. I need to get somewhere where my cell phone would work, or where I could tell people what the hell was going on here. Crossing the river was a no-go. But on the other side of town is Bixby. It's a little village that's a little bigger than we are.

There's no roads between here and Bixby. Our mountains are plenty steep and treacherous. Those six miles between our towns can get pretty wild. It would be a very easy thing to fall down a bluff, break a leg, or twist an ankle, and die of exposure at the bottom of some ravine. And I couldn't navigate that kind of terrain at night. If those drones had heat sensors like I thought they did, I might have a better chance of going undetected during the day.

It's hot as it was. Maybe I wouldn't show up on their sensors at all. And it seemed like my best bet. All I needed to do, though, was just to get home. I could pack some supplies and hold up until sunrise. I cut through the yards between houses until I finally came out on my own street. I was just a few doors up from my place. In the glow of the street light, I could see my neighbor Jerry standing at the edge of our shared driveway.

He was wearing a terry cloth bathrobe over pajamas and corduroy slippers. There was an aluminum bat in his hand. He was tapping it nervously against the side of his leg. And I didn't like the looks of that, but he'd already spotted me. So I decided to play it casual. Oh, hey, Jerry, I said as I approached him. Some night, huh? He had that look on his face.

The same one Lindsay had. Jerry pointed the bat at the mountains rising up behind our houses. They don't want us to leave, he said. Euclid Lane was on the edge of town. On our side of the street, all the backyards bordered a field overgrown with scrub grass and a few maple tree soplings. Beyond that field, heavily wooded bluffs rose into the mountains, that separated river bend from Bixby near the top.

I could see an orange glow fanning out across the face of the hills. A spark dropped from the sky. It flashed when it struck the ground and added to the spreading glow. They were using the drones to firebomb the forest, I realized. And the fire was moving fast. The wind was pushing the flame. pushing the flames straight for the town. By morning, there'd be nothing left of River Bend, but Ash, whatever was going on, somebody was willing to murder a whole town to cover it up.

They think they can stop it, but they can't. Jerry began. It's awake now, and it's coming back. We have to tell people. I held up my hands. Jerry, look. I am the messenger, he interrupted, and swung the bat right at my head. I managed to duck just in time, but it was close enough that I felt a whiff of air on the back of my neck. Jerry swung so hard, though, that the momentum spun him around.

He lost traction on the gravel drive, and his feet shot out from under him. He landed hard enough that I heard his teeth clack together with the impact. He was on phase, though. He immediately scrambled to get back up, and I kicked him in the ribs as hard as I could. I felt something crunch under the toe of my boot. Jerry fell back and groaned, and he stared into the night's sky for a moment. and then his eyes locked with mine. Have, have to tell, he croaked, blood frothing on his lips.

Jerry was a good guy. You know, I always liked him, right up until he tried to kill me with a softball bat. His eyes turned away from me, looking at something beyond. Actually, he was looking at something behind me. And I turned to see what it was. A dozen or more of my neighbors were approaching. There were people I recognized, and some I even knew pretty well. And every one of them carried some kind of improvised weapon.

Garden tools, kitchen implements, sporting goods. I saw Amy Freeman waving a garden weasel around like she was trying to swathing flies. Drew Austin was also in the crowd, a butcher knife in each hand, and so many more knives tucked into his belt that if he bent over, he'd cut himself in half. Tom McGrady had a pump shotgun with a ridiculously long barrel that he used for duck hunting, and they all had that look. Tom racked the side of his shotgun, and I ran. I had to jump over Jerry, who was called, coughing up gobs of bloody spittle. I darted between our two houses.

It was the only direction open to me. Crossing the overgrown field behind my house. It was like one of those nightmares, where you're trying to run from something, but your feet feel like they're sinking into mud. The waist-high scrub grass wrapped around my ankles with each step. Yells of, I am the messenger, let me know that they were close behind.

I didn't need to look back. It seemed like every time I heard those words tonight, somebody was trying to kill me. When I reached the far end of the field and started up the wooded slope of the mountain, the sounds of pursuit had fallen off. After all, I was running towards the fire. Maybe they figured I'd wind up killing myself and save them the trouble. I had something else in mind now. I just hoped that story my grandfather used to tell was for real, and not some tall tale.

He never talked much about his days as a miner, but every once in a while, when he'd been drinking. He'd tell the story of the time he got lost in the old part of the mine. The darkness will whisper to you down there. He'd just blurt out after his fourth or fifth drink. It's a dreamy voice. a talking in its sleep kind of voice. But it'll tell a man things. He ought not know.

He'd go on to explain how he got separated from his crew. He'd tell everyone how he wandered into the old part of the mine. He knew it was the old part, because there were tracks on the floor for mine cards, and they didn't use those anymore. It was more efficient to hold. the coal out on conveyor belt. He leaned forward and tell me about feeling a puff of breeze on his cheek.

He followed it until he found the escape tunnel. At this point, Grandpa would pour himself another drink and tell how he walked six miles underground to emerge on a bluff overlooking Bixby. If you ever get lost down there, he'd finish. Find your way to the old mine and bear as far right as you can. Once you feel the air on your cheek, follow that tunnel up and out. Just don't listen to the darkness. Don't listen to it, whisper.

With that, he would drain his glass, close his eyes, and within a few minutes be softly snoring. I don't know if anybody who actually believed his story. The general consensus was that nobody ever went into the old mines for any reason. They were just too dangerous. But for my sake, I hoped it was true. Trapped in a town full of crazies between mercenaries with machine-gun drones on one side and a forest fire on the other,

The mine was my only option. So I scrambled up the hillside. I lunged from one tree trunk to the next to pull myself over the rougher parts. The going got easier once I made it up at the first ridge and stepped onto Ogden Road. It's a two-lane blacktop leading back to the mine. I was able to jog a good way until the smoke coming down off the mountain. It got too thick. And by the time I reached the parking lot, at the mine entrance, my uniform was soaked with sweat, and my body was trying desperately to cough up both my lungs. Up until Fortian had bought our property. Our department would come up here twice a week to check for vandalism or signs of intrusion. Several months had passed since the last time I'd been here. And a good bit had changed. The formerly cracked and vacant parking area had been resurfaced. It now bathed in the glow of portable area lights. Office trailers were arranged in a horseshoe around the entrance. A few late model high-end SUVs were clustered

at the far end of the lot, and everything was emblazoned with the Fortian global logo. There were bodies as well. Three of them. All of them were wearing chinos, and windbreakers, just like that guy at the Quickey Mart, and all had met very violent ends. The guard shack by the entrance was empty, but the gate to the mine itself stood open. So I pulled it open and stepped inside. It was not what I was expecting at all. Instead of dirt, rock, and darkness, I found myself in a tube. It was well lit with LEDs and the air was clean and smoke-free. There must be some filtering system. All the surfaces were pristine. I headed down the slope. The tube bypassed three levels, opening only in the lowest

gallery. It opened into a long, wide tunnel with branches evenly spaced on either side. As I understood it, that's how the coal was mined. A gallery was dug through the middle of a seam and then excavated out to the edges through the side tunnels. They'd leave enough material between those tunnels to support the ceiling. At any right, the last tunnel on the right-hand side was only two-thirds down the length of the gallery. Directly in front of it was a low, brightly lit platform. There was no rumble of generators, and I had to wonder where the power came to the power came

from on the platform was an array of consoles computers and what I can only guess were some sort of sensors everything was oriented towards the last side tunnel the thought crossed my mind that I could just stay here I could hide until the fire burned out but it was pretty obvious that those 40 and people had put a lot of efforts into this place they'd be coming back to reclaim it Besides, I needed to tell someone what was happening here. That side tunnel, it seemed like my best bed. The tunnel was dark.

Even though the sheriff took my pistol, I was still wearing my duty belt. I had a palm-sized but insanely bright flashlight clipped between my handcuffs and clicking it on. I moved forward. Maybe 50 or 60 feet deep, the tunnel had been closed off with a thick wall. the thick wall of Lexon. There was a keypad-operated door in the middle, and a sign beside read, authorized personnel only. Level 4 psych hazard protection required beyond this point. Another body lay on the floor. Shining my flashlight through the Lexon, I could see a ragged

hole at the end. And beyond that, another tunnel running perpendicular. I could just make out the rails of a mine cart track. It was the old mine. All I had to do was get into that tunnel, work my way to the far right, and then follow the air current to the surface. But the door, of course, was locked. I kick the Lexon in frustration. I was about to go back to the platform to see if maybe somebody had written down the key code on a sticky note or something. And then I noticed three of the keys on the pad were covered with bloody fingerprints.

Three, four, and seven. Maybe I could crack the code, I thought. There's only so many ways you can arrange three numbers. And it turns out there were six ways. None of them worked. Again, I wanted to scream and kick something. Instead, I looked at the keypad more closely. The ridges and swirls of the fingerprints on the three and four were sharp and clear,

while the print on the seven was smudged. And then I got the idea that maybe someone had pressed seven twice. I tried 3477 and 7347, no result. But when I keyed 7734, the door popped open with a hiss, and I was so relieved that I never thought to wonder who left those bloody prints. The old mine was scary. There was no orderly and logical layout, no main galleries with evenly spaced side branches. The tunnels meandered haphazardly, following coal seams. They were low and narrow. Instead of steel beam supports,

the walls and ceiling were shored up with timbers so old it looked like they might crumble at a touch. Trickles of dirt and tiny pebbles fell from the ceiling randomly. Unlike the newer section, the atmosphere here was dark and oppressive somehow. It required effort to move air in and out of my lungs, My flashlight didn't seem as bright as it had before. It wasn't like the batteries were dying, but it was like the darkness here was thicker, heavier

somehow. Probably my mind was just playing tricks on me, I decided. I moved to my left, which would be east towards Bixby, and as soon as I came to the tunnel branch that led to the ride, I took it. The darkness closed in even tighter, compressing the cone of light in front of me. I passed three more branching tunnels, but I just kept going straight. I was looking for the far right of the mine and that puff of air on my cheek that would lead me out.

I started to wonder if maybe my initial orientation had been off. Maybe I was heading left or forward. Backward? Who knows? I stopped moving. I tried to calm myself. I knew that if I panicked, I would die down here. And that's when I heard it. Ragged, breathing. It was coming from behind me. I spun around and raised my flashlight, and that probably saved my life. Another 40-in middle management type was coming at me. Covered in dirt and gore, his face,

was that same demented mask I'd been seeing on my friends and neighbors. I'm the messenger, he snarled. And he swung a shovel at my head. When the light hit him in the eyes, he flinched. Instead of burying itself in the side of my skull, the shovel struck me on the left shoulder. The edge of the blade bit into my skin, and the wound wasn't fatal, but it did make me drop my light. I definitely need stitches and a tetanus booster. My attacker wrenched the shovel blade for another swing, accidentally striking one of the shaft supports.

The wood was as rotten as it looked, and it cracked and buckled. Having lost its support on one end, the ceiling beam swung down, and it struck him on the temple, knocking him to his knees. My flashlight lay on the tunnel floor beside him. and in the glow, I saw him just shake off the blow. He gripped the shovel tighter and started to rise. My left arm was numb and useless.

I was dehydrated at that point, and my lungs were seared from the smoke I'd inhaled. He was opening his mouth to speak when the roof collapsed right on top of him, and he was instantly buried, along with my flashlight, under tons of rise. I stumbled backward as I was sprayed with dust and rock chips. I tripped and fell and I hit my head on the cart rail. I don't know how long I was out. Seconds, minutes, hours maybe. Probably wasn't that long because the air was still full of dust when I came to. It was almost impossible to breathe. My hand came away wet and sticky when I touched the back of my head and cold fingers of panic had started plucking at me it took a few minutes to calm myself down and when i finally did i started crawling with one hand on the rail as a guide i didn't know what else to do grandpa was right the darkness does whisper only it's not a sleepy

voice. It must be some kind of mind trick. Maybe my brain was trying to fill the void of losing my sight completely by making stuff up in the darkness. Down here in the deep dark, my mind, yeah, it made up voices, to compensate for the lack of sight. But why would it say such awful things? I crawled on following that rail until it just ended. I was terrified of losing contact with it. I reached out as far as I could all around me, finding nothing but empty space. And this was it.

After everything I'd been through, I was going to slowly die down here in the dark. And maybe it was the still darkness that made me notice that little puff of air on my face. I sought up holding, very still and I felt it again. I let go of the rail and I crawled forward. I stopped every few seconds waiting to feel that whisper of cool air and each time I found it it got a little stronger and stronger until it was a constant breeze. Soon I found a wall and I climbed to my feet shuffling forward.

My hand trailing along the rough stone, always keeping that little draught in my face. It was a painfully long and slow walk, but as long as I could feel that bit of air gently caressing my cheek, I had hope. And finally I saw it, not light, but a rectangle of something less dark. I had to force myself not to run, be a damn shame to trip and bash my brains out. when I was so close, the less dark rectangle became gray, and soon I could see stars, and then I was out. I found myself standing on a bluff facing east. The far horizon was just beginning to pale with the coming sunrise, and the lights of Bixby twinkled below me. The town was

maybe a mile and a half away and the walk would be downhill I made it I'd survived and now I could tell people what was happening in River Bend that was the most important thing you know to tell people they had to know it was awake it was coming back and I am the messenger