Horror Story by Brian P. Kalfus
“A TORNADO WARNING HAS BEEN ISSUED FOR YOUR AREA.” Ali had grown numb to all the alerts. He knew the United States led the world in tornadoes, but the alerts seldom resulted in anything serious. Ali had emigrated from Afghanistan two years ago, and after buying a smartphone, he set his local weather app to notify him of “radar-indicated rotation.” Each time a warning sounded, he scrambled for shelter. But the National Weather Service never confirmed a single tornado within a hundred miles of his home. Eastern Tennessee got hit with small hail and high winds from time to time, but that was it. Ali and his girlfriend, Melinda, had scheduled their campout weeks ago. There was no way they would cancel after all the false alarms. Today, the two had been hiking for hours when Ali’s phone blasted out the current warning. They ignored it and marched on.
Ali and Melinda arrived at the campground late afternoon. The park had three campgrounds, and the young couple reached the most secluded one, recommended by Melinda’s stepfather, Jerry. They passed not a single person on the trail. The wind gusts had picked up considerably— Ali estimated their speed to be about forty miles an hour. The clouds threatened rain, but before confirming on his app, he set down his ice chest and backpack, and kissed Melinda on the lips. They had been sweating bullets since the beginning of their trek. Their T-shirts were drenched. Melinda’s amber, shoulder-length hair had started to clump, but that didn’t dampen her beauty. She wore skimpy cutoffs that exposed a generous amount of her tan, muscular legs, and Ali enjoyed the fragrance of her perfume.
He inspected his chafed palms. On the way, he had tried to prevent blisters by passing the ice chest from hand to hand. That idea didn’t work—he should have worn gloves. His arms and shoulders screamed for aspirin. Ali arched his body backward and rolled his neck. He and Melinda each had hauled a flannel sleeping bag and an oversized backpack full of clothes and food. Melinda carried the cooking equipment while Ali lugged their new two-person canvas tent.
The weather app reported the location of the supposed storm to be about twenty miles to the northwest.
“Should we worry?” asked Melinda. She too had her phone programmed for weather alerts, but didn’t pull it out. She and Ali had agreed to keep phone use to a minimum, since the goal of their trip was to “escape from it all.”
“Nah,” said Ali. “Only when a trained spotter actually sees the tornado, will we do something different.” Ali surveyed the desolated vicinity. “Look, there’s a restroom.” He pointed to a gray concrete block structure besieged by overgrown weeds. “Tornado shelter.” Melinda glanced at it.
“I think I’d rather dive in a ditch,” she said, turning her back.
“We probably won’t need either,” said Ali. “The funnel may never drop this low.” He inspected the three lots for the best place to pitch the tent, and chose the one furthest from the restroom. Melinda wrinkled her nose.
“Ali, what is that smell?”
Ali tilted his head back and sniffed. “Smells like dead animals.”
“It couldn’t have smelled like this when Jerry and Mom were here.” Melinda always spoke highly of her stepfather. He had been so supportive to her family after the death of her father. When Jerry described the fun he and Melinda’s mother had during their campout earlier that year, Melinda demanded Ali take her on a similar outing.
“Don’t be so sure,” said Ali. “Maybe Jerry’s trying to break us up.”
Melinda glowered at her boyfriend. “He would never send us to a place that smelled like this.”
“No,” said Ali. “But sometimes I wonder about him. He doesn’t seem to like me.”
“That’s all in your head,” said Melinda. “Didn’t he drive to Memphis with us when you won that award? For winning the art contest?” Ali’s painting of the Valley of the Kings had won top prize. Melinda and her mother expressed much delight over the achievement, but Jerry seemed reserved the entire trip, acting as chauffeur and not much else.
“Yes, but I think he doesn’t like Muslims. He didn’t seem all too thrilled yesterday when I told everyone I might be able to get Mother and Ahsan out of Afghanistan. But let’s drop it. Right now, we need to find a place where it doesn’t stink. Like where the wind doesn’t blow the stench in our faces.” Ali opened Google Maps. “The closest campground is two miles away.”
“I’m too tired to go anywhere else,” said Melinda.
“Maybe if we pitched the tent and stayed inside, we won’t smell it. You got any perfume?”
“No,” said Melinda, swatting away a swarm of insects. “But I’ve got some pine-scented bug spray.”
Ali put his phone back in a pocket of his cargo shorts. He saw a flash in the sky, and heard distant thunder. “Why don’t you check out the ladies room while I pitch the tent?” Ali had never pitched a tent, even though he was used to living in them as a child. Those had already been built by the United Nations. The tent he had just bought from Home Depot came with written instructions, which he made sure to bring with him.
“Okay,” said Melinda. “Let me know if you need my help.”
Ali was half-finished when Melinda returned.
“The dead animal smell’s not coming from in there,” she said. “But it’s still nasty. Doesn’t look like anyone’s come by to clean in a long time. There are cigarette butts on the floor, and hair in the sink and shower.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Ali. “Look at all the leaves and twigs in the fire pits. I doubt anyone’s been here in a while.”
Ali heard rustling from the trail. A man entered the campground. He glanced at the partially raised tent, and then approached. Melinda moved behind her boyfriend. The man stood about six inches taller than Ali, had bags under his eyes, and stiff facial hair. He wore stained, faded blue overalls. His head was mostly bald, with curly strands of black and gray. Each of his thumbs clutched a suspender. The man eyed Ali.
“Not sure tonight’s the night for a campout, buddy.” The stranger motioned to the sky, which had turned blue-green.
“Thanks, but we know what we’re doing,” said Ali.
More thunder. “You pay any attention to the weather?”
“I’m tracking it on my phone,” said Ali.
The man leaned to the left. “Who’s this pretty little lady?”
Ali wrapped his arm around Melinda’s waist. “This is my girlfriend.”
The stranger smiled at her. “Glad to meet you, ma’am. You’ll want to go easy on the perfume. Could attract bears and whatnot.” He eyed the ice chest. “Same goes for food. Bears are hungry. You got a gun on you?”
“No,” said Ali. “But we’ll be fine. What we need right now is privacy, sir.”
“Gotcha. I’ll scram,” said the stranger. “In case you need me, I got me a farm on the other side of these here woods.” He pointed southeast. “The barn ain’t much, but it’ll keep you dry.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Ali. “We’ll keep it in mind.” The stranger’s offer calmed him, but Melinda went stiff. She clasped Ali’s forearm. The man reached out his hand to Ali.
“Reed Belcher’s the name.”
Ali shook Belcher’s dry, sunburned hand and winced as the man pressed hard. Belcher took a long stare at Melinda, nodded at both, and retreated to the trail.
“Ali, I’m scared.”
“I know,” said Ali. “But I don’t think he’s dangerous.”
“I wish you’d brought a gun,” said Melinda. “I thought for sure you would.”
Ali narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know why you’d think that.” He had not brought a gun, but he did bring a ring. An engagement ring. Hidden in his backpack.
Melinda logged in to her phone. “The storm is approaching, but may pass us to the north.”
“You want to go back? Or should I finish setting up the tent?”
“Finish the tent,” she said. “It’ll keep us dry, as long as it doesn’t blow over.”
Ali hoped that once they were inside she would cheer up. After he pounded in the last stake, he stood back to admire his work. Melinda grabbed his hand and leaned her head on his shoulder. The strongest wind gust so far roared behind them. It pushed them a step forward. The tent walls flapped and whistled, but did not rip apart, even when pelted by twigs and pebbles.
“I guess there’s no sense in building a fire.” Ali extended his arm at the tent. “After you, my lovely Melinda.”
Melinda grabbed her backpack and ducked inside. Ali followed with the cooler and his stuff. He zipped the tent closed and sprayed the inside with the bug repellent. From his backpack, he wrenched out a can of Pringles. He removed the cap, pulled off the seal, and held out the can. Melinda seized a handful.
“What kind of meat is in the cooler?” she asked, while munching on the chips.
Ali pulled out a dripping pack of Ball Park franks and showed it to her. “They’re not bad cold.”
They each wolfed down two hot dogs without speaking, while sharing a bottle of Dasani. The wind gusts didn’t clear out the stuffy air inside. Ali pulled off his T-shirt, unraveled his sleeping bag, and emptied his pockets. Melinda pulled on a dry shirt. He noticed her still sweating and repeatedly scratching her shoulders, so he zipped down the tent and pushed back the flap. The oncoming storm had lowered the temperature considerably, and the bug spray drowned out the foul odor. Melinda arranged her bedding. They lay back and held hands. This kind of shelter was a refreshing change from the makeshift homes at the UN camps. Those dwellings were surrounded by armored tanks and stinky soldiers, not towering oaks and soothing temperatures. The thunder grew louder, but still no rain.
“What do you think that man could be farming?” asked Melinda. “To make it smell so bad?”
“Maybe he slaughters his own livestock.” Thunder cracked again, the loudest so far. “We’ve got to worry about storms, Melinda. Not stenches.”
“I’m more worried of locals who live that primitively. You’re probably used to that sort of thing, but I’m not.”
Ali would be glad when they were married and Melinda would leave home. “You’re still believing that crap Jerry put into your head. I told you our family was always starving. We never had meat.” Melinda was silent. Ever since moving from Afghanistan, Ali had to put up with a few stereotypes. He spoke fluent English with only a slight accent, but because of his Islamic name and skin color, some Americans held preconceived notions about people from his native country.
After a few minutes listening to the wind, Ali sat up. “I’ve got to use the restroom before it starts raining.” He pulled on a clean T-shirt.
Melinda rose. “Be careful,” she said, then grabbed her phone. “I’ll call Mom while you’re gone.”
As Ali crawled out, he said, “Ask her why Jerry set us up to sleep next to a slaughterhouse.” Melinda didn’t answer. He was disappointed she couldn’t put her phone aside and relax with the cool breeze. He wanted their trip to have no distractions, which was why he refused to bring his sketchbook. If only Melinda still relished nature, like when they met at Berryview Community College. Outside the student center, he painted Egyptian landmarks while she painted the Great Smoky Mountains, all the time listening to the birds sing and the creek babble. Their bond transcended everything that was different about them—their nationalities, their upbringings, their religions. Now they both toiled as graphic designers, and found it difficult to leave their cubicles, much less technology.
Outside, the weather had coated the ground with fresh leaves. Ali examined the tent stakes. They were still firm. He heard Melinda speaking, but could not make out the words. Then the app blasted another tornado warning. He had left his phone by his sleeping bag.
Ali hurried toward the men’s room. Another outburst of wind plowed into his face. Bits of leaves and dirt penetrated his hair, eyes, and mouth. His eyes welled, forcing him to stop. He resumed walking until tickling in his throat triggered a coughing spell. Tears streamed down his cheeks. With his head turned, Ali proceeded to the restroom entrance. Inside, he whiffed mold, urine, and excrement—more stinky than a gas station bathroom. Ali blinked until he could see clearly. He observed a sink, a urinal, and a stall. Then he turned left and froze. On the floor lay a filthy nylon sleeping bag, a metal canteen, a military medal attached to a chain, three empty bottles of Jim Beam, and a pack of Marlboros.
Ali eyed the closed stall. “Anybody here?” No one answered.
He stepped up to the urinal and started to relieve himself. The wind howled again. Then he heard a scream. He finished up as fast as he could and rushed outside. Ali found Melinda perched on top of a lopsided boulder, about fifty feet from the tent.
Ali ran to her. “What’s the matter?”
Melinda staggered. Then she crouched down and pointed at the tent. “There’s a snake in there!” Her arms trembled as she gripped the boulder.
“Shit. Did it bite you?”
“No, but it scared the hell out of me!” Melinda’s entire body quivered.
Ali jumped on a rock next to her.
“You got your phone with you?” he asked.
“No. I dropped it when the snake hit me. It’s still inside the tent.”
“Did your mom hear you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you see what kind of snake it was?”
“No,” said Melinda, shaking again. “It was gray!”
“The wind must have blown it in there,” said Ali.
“I think that hillbilly threw it in!”
“Did you hear anybody?”
“No, but I wasn’t paying attention.” Melinda turned to Ali. “You got your phone?”
He stared at the open flap. “No, it’s in the tent.”
“You’ve got to go get it and call for help!”
“We have to wait until the snake leaves,” said Ali. “It might be poisonous.”
“Can’t you just beat it with a stick?”
“I’ll try,” said Ali, and jumped down. Lightning flashed again, and the close thunder startled Ali. He looked at the western sky and discovered a low-hanging cloud slowly circling. “I see rotation. We need to seek cover.”
“The restroom!” Melinda leaped off the rock and sprinted toward the ladies room.
Ali watched her and then followed. Melinda scurried inside. Just as Ali was about to enter, Melinda slammed into him. Ali lost his footing and fell against the concrete entrance, banging his head.
“Somebody’s in there! With a shotgun!” Melinda did not check on her boyfriend. She tore off for the trail.
Ali felt the back of his head. It was bleeding. He rose to his feet, wobbled, and hollered, “Was it the same guy?”
Melinda didn’t respond. She turned right to the southeast, toward the barn. Ali took one step forward. His vision blurred and he could barely control his balance. He pressed the sides of his head with his palms, looked straight forward, and inhaled deeply. Now focused, he took large strides forward as the wind pushed him left and right. He entered the trail. The tree shade and dark clouds made the afternoon seem like night. Ali ran forward, then stumbled over a tree root protruding from the ground, and fell flat on his face. He sat upright and breathed deeply. After about five minutes, he got up and shuffled forward, stopping every few steps to regain focus. He could barely see the path as it wound left. Leaves slapped against his bare calves and the ground turned bumpy. The woods thickened. Branches scraped his cheek.
“Melinda!” No answer. “Melinda! Where are you?” Still nothing.
Massive oaks boxed him in. With each lightning flash, Ali stumbled from one tree to another, trying to find a way out. He saw nothing but forest, until the lightning lit up a grassland in front of a farmhouse. He slogged toward it, not bothering to find the trail. The putrid smell strengthened. Ali took a few steps with every flash. When his footing switched from bumpy to grassy, he halted. The smell enveloped him, inducing nausea. If the farmhouse had electricity, it was now out. He waited for the lightning to lead the way. Ali stumbled through waist-high grass until reaching a barren clearing. In front of him stood a towering pile of bones and fleshy matter, about ten feet high and twenty feet wide. Another flash of lighting revealed a fresh animal carcass at the top. It was a cow. Ali skirted around the pile to a wire pen next to the farmhouse. The pen corralled no animals, just a scattering of cow pies. Behind it, a narrow, fenced-in path led to a two-story barn. Ali made his way for the barn, holding on to the fence and kicking hay with every step.
The barn door swung back and forth as swirling hay spilled out. Ali entered while shielding his eyes with his forearm. He lowered it to find Reed Belcher pointing a shotgun at him.
“Hold it buddy! Hands up.” Belcher fixed the gun on Ali’s chest.
Ali raised his arms. “What’s going on? Where’s my girlfriend?”
“Your girlfriend’s in a safe place.”
“Where the hell is she?” Ali took a step forward.
“Get back, buddy. Unless you wanna get shot.” Belcher aimed the gun barrel about two feet from Ali’s face. “I’ll take you to your mate. But first you’re going to do some work for me.”
The thunder and wind transformed into a steady, deafening roar. The door to the second-floor loft flung open. Bales of hay tumbled backward and plunged to the ground, gathering around the base of the loft’s ladder. The wall behind Belcher began to shake. Ali looked up at the open loft and saw outside. “The tornado’s here! I can see the funnel!”
Belcher began to turn around, but stopped. “Nice try, buddy.”
“Sir, get down!”
The wall snapped like a twig and slammed down on Belcher. Ali dropped to his knees. Half of the roof tumbled to the floor on Ali’s right. Broken pieces of boards, rafters, and straws of hay swirled counterclockwise into the sky. A pitchfork flew off its nail post. Ali flattened like a pancake with his face down, lips pressing against the filthy barn floor. His ears popped. Glass shattered. Ali wrapped his hands around his head. A darkening shadow above and a vibrating floor beneath felt as though a Harrier jet was hovering inches from his body. Splintered boards and hay straws scraped against his arms and legs. Some landed on his body and remained, while others blew away.
Twenty seconds passed and it was over. The air temperature felt twenty degrees cooler. Ali turned over and let the debris tumble off his body. The clouds had blended into a homogeneous gray. No barn walls remained. Ali jumped to his feet and stood guard like a hawk. No sign of Belcher or his gun. Red planks of the toppled walls were strewn like a spilled box of toothpicks. The barn floor was now a carpet of hay, dirt, tools, glass shards, tree branches, and animal parts. Ali inspected his body. The storm had tattooed his arms and legs with red scratches, some beginning to bleed. He felt the back of his head. A lump had formed and the blood had not yet dried. His black, stringy hair was moussed with blood, sweat, and dreck. Ali spit out some salivated dirt and wiped his lips with his forearm. He glanced in the direction of the farmhouse, which was now a twisted mess of white boards. Animal parts, both old and new, had scattered between the now wireless pen and the clearing. He tramped over the debris, reached the clearing, and froze.
Ali stood before a five-foot-tall stone step pyramid. The storm had dispersed the pile of animal parts, revealing the smoothly-stoned, symmetrical structure. Ali had never set foot in Egypt, but felt like he was there now. He circled the base of the pyramid and then slowly approached. The terrain he walked on felt stony and uneven. His feet began to sink. He backed away from the pyramid and noticed the rocky soil around it had sunk about a foot lower from where he stood.
Ali left the clearing and stumbled over to the farmhouse rubble. White broken planks scattered the earth for half a mile. He couldn’t find a storm cellar, but did spot some wooden stairs leading underground, presumably to the basement. Amongst the white planks lay heaps of clothes and busted furniture. He kicked boards out of his way to see those remnants up close. Underneath a turned-over loveseat Ali discovered a contorted snow-white Angora cat. It did not move and its marbly eyes were stretched wide open. Ali quickly found a sweatshirt and gently placed it over the body.
Beyond the cat lay scattered shards of a mirror and many ornate necklaces, bracelets, and earrings. On the ground beside a desk, Ali stumbled upon an 8 ½ x 11 picture frame. It held a certificate: “Reed Belcher: Stone Mason Guild; Proud Member Since 1983.” Ali kicked it away and grabbed another, larger frame. Its wood-carved casing held a portrait of Reed and a long-haired woman, wearing a golden caftan and long, lavish earrings.
“That’s my Frances,” said a voice from behind.
Ali spun around. Belcher again had his shotgun pointed at him. His shoulders were drenched in blood. Cross-eyed, Belcher stumbled and re-aimed. Ali kept his arms at his sides.
“Put that fucking gun away!” Ali clenched his fists.
“We’re going for a walk.” Belcher flicked the gun barrel to the right. Ali glared intensely in the man’s eyes as he obeyed, never looking away.
Then a different gun fired. Ali flinched. Belcher plopped sideways to the ground. Blood pooled around his head. Ali turned. An emaciated, shirtless man stood twenty feet away, near the pyramid, holding a shotgun. His wrinkly arms bared indecipherable tattoos. The man stuck his gun in the ground and leaned on the butt. Ali gaped down at the bloody corpse.
“What the hell?” said Ali, and looked toward the shirtless man.
“Had to put Reed out of his misery.” The man scratched his shaggy white beard.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Wayne. What’s your name?”
“You knew this bastard?” Ali pointed to the dead body.
“Yessir,” said Wayne. “Finally he’s gone, just like everything he owns. The storm took it.”
“That man kidnapped my girlfriend! Now I’ll never find her!”
Wayne turned toward the woods. “Was that the girl who ran from me in the ladies room?”
“Yes!”
Wayne turned back to Ali. “Wish she hadn’t run away. She would have been safe with me.”
“I’ve got to find her!” Ali was on the verge of tears.
“You say Reed kidnapped her?” Wayne looked out at the destroyed farmhouse. “Storm probably took her, too. She must be lying around somewhere.”
Wayne stepped forward. The ground beneath him gave way. He disappeared. Ali heard a grunt, crashes of dirt and stone, then silence. He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled to where Wayne had fallen. About five feet from the pyramid, the earth had opened up into a pit the size of a manhole. Ali stuck his head in. A breathtaking aroma overwhelmed him—an aroma resembling a combination of perfume, incense, and paint thinner. He saw only blackness.
“Melinda!” No answer.
The terrain sank again. Ali crawled back to solid ground, rose to his feet, and ran to Belcher’s body. The dead man’s pockets held shotgun shells and a large key, one that seemed too big to fit a house or car lock. He stuck it in his pocket.
Ali returned to the woods and found what was left of the trail. He followed it while kicking away the stray vegetation. At the campground, the only thing recognizable was the restroom, its entrance blocked by an uprooted oak. The tent was gone. If any of its contents lay nearby, they were smothered by chunks of dirt, rocks, and branches from freshly dismembered trees.
Ali made his way back to the barn debris. He eyed the sprawling wreckage and scavenged for anything useful. He lifted up boards and pushed away hay. After thirty minutes, he excavated the loft’s ladder. Ali dragged it to the manhole-sized pit.
The earth continued to crumble as he sat down, but he didn’t care. He blindly lowered the ladder into the pit, ignoring the pain in his hands. The ladder hit something soft. Ali forced it down until it would go no further. The earth sank faster, but the nearby pyramid stood firmly. As the ground was about to give way, he let go of the ladder. It slammed against something hard. Frantically, he crawled toward the pyramid as the soil plummeted behind him. He threw one elbow on the bottom step just as the entire dirt perimeter vanished. Ali’s body plunged down and he lost his elbow grip. His arm scraped against the stone step until he was hanging by his fingertips. His dangling feet grazed something solid. Gambling that it was a ladder rung, he let go of the step. Ali dropped about a foot until his feet met the rung, forcing his body forward into the ladder. He hugged the sides, secured his feet, and panted furiously until his heart stopped pounding.
A bit of light had entered the pit, which had grown to about thirty feet in diameter. Ali glanced down. It was too dark to see the floor. He peered through the ladder rungs before his face and saw that the ladder was leaning against a stone pillar, one of four that supported the pyramid above. Ali’s arms, hands, and legs now dripped blood.
He slowly descended the ladder, pausing at every rung to make sure his footing was solid. The mysterious aroma intensified. Finally, he reached dirt. Lots of it. The muck had buried the last few rungs of the ladder. The floor consisted of lumpy mounds of dirt, sand, grass, leaves, and animal bones.
And a dead Wayne. Impaled on the spear of a wooden statue. The seven-foot-tall black and gold sculpture was carved in the image of a woman clad in a caftan. She held a spear almost perpendicular to the floor, the point of which emerged from Wayne’s bare chest. His eyes looked glassier than those of the Angora cat. The grisly sight repulsed Ali so much he kept his back turned as he picked up Wayne’s shotgun. The chamber contained no shells. Ali searched Wayne’s bloody jeans’ pockets. He found no ammunition, just an empty wallet carrying a torn, withered page of newspaper. Ali unfolded it, held it up to the light, and ascertained it to be a news article dated three months ago. The headline read: BODY STOLEN FROM STEVENS FUNERAL HOME. The page included two photos, one a head shot of Frances Belcher and the other a security camera image of a suspect outside the funeral home. It was Wayne.
The dim light made reading difficult, but Ali figured out the gist of the article. The body of Frances Helena Belcher, a woman who had suddenly passed away from a heart attack, was stolen from a local mortuary the same night it was transferred from a local hospital. Frances was the wife of retired stone mason Reed Belcher, who had recently filed for bankruptcy. Police were asking for help identifying the suspect.
Ali refolded the article and put it in his pocket. The soil at Ali’s feet slanted downward toward the stone pillars. He kicked the dirt furiously until reaching the closest one. The light was too faint to see anything under the pyramid except the silhouettes of two structures about four feet high, eight feet long, and three feet wide. Ali fumbled around in the darkness until making contact with what felt like an oil lamp, sitting on a shelf. He found a matchbox next to the lamp and tried to light the wick, but it did not ignite. Next to the lamp stood a candelabra. He lit the six candles and the room brightened.
The structures resembled stone tombs. They had no coverings. Each of them carried a stack of closed wooden boxes. On the floor near the structures stood four clay jars, shut with lids shaped like jungle animals. On the other side of the tombs Ali came upon two meticulously sanded, plain pine open coffins, perched on wooden stands. The coffin lids leaned against a nearby pillar. Underneath one of the stands sat several cans of colored paint, and a closed hard-covered book of curly brownish-white pages, most likely papyri. Under the other stand, Ali found a glossy, hollowed-out wooden carving, painted in black and gold. Two wooden horns protruded from it. Studying the carving closer, Ali discovered two eye holes beneath the horns.
Ali peered in one of the coffins. It contained a handwritten note: “To hold the body and spirit of Reed Lester Belcher II. May he be given eternal life in the Afterworld.” Ali peeked into the second coffin and stepped back. He felt transported back three thousand years. The coffin contained a linen-wrapped corpse, the source of the mysterious aroma. The corpse fit the coffin perfectly. The entire body was swathed in white linen except for the feet, which had not yet decomposed. The feet had been placed in wooden sandals and the toes were fitted with gilded caps. A smooth, black stone lay over the body’s heart.
Ali briefly reflected about what he had just observed and then remembered what was important.
“Melinda!”
He heard dirt crumbling. He scrambled to where the sound came from. The noise stopped. Ali stood still, then heard a shuffle, a murmur, and more crumbling. He traced the disturbance to an empty wooden bench. It sat flush against a wall. The bench appeared sturdy, but uninviting. After more noise, closer this time, Ali shoved the bench away. He discovered the opening of a dirt tunnel, about waist-high. He knelt and gazed into it. The little portion he could see had a diameter of about four feet.
“Anybody in there? Melinda?” Chunks of the tunnel’s ceiling plunged down, stirring up dust.
“Keep away from my stepdaughter!” The shout came from far inside the tunnel. Its echo caused more pieces of ceiling to fall. Ali was stunned when he recognized the voice.
“Is that you Jerry?” Ali spoke in a normal tone. “Is Melinda with you?”
“Thought you’d be dead by now.” Jerry’s voice echoed closer. More crumbling and dust.
Ali strained to see deeper inside, but all he saw was darkness. “We’ll both be dead unless you stop shouting. The ceiling is coming down. Where’s Melinda?”
Jerry lowered his voice. “I found Reed’s body. Now I’ve got you for murder.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Ali wanted to shout, but kept his voice down.
Jerry mumbled some words. Ali couldn’t decipher them except for the word “Melinda.” Ali squeezed his upper body into the tunnel.
“Melinda?” Silence. “Jerry, is Melinda in there with you?” No answer. Ali heard grunting, dirt tumbling, metal clanging, a holler echoing, followed by a thud. Seconds later came a bloodcurdling scream. Ali recoiled to the tomb room.
He pulled a lit candle from the candelabra and put the matchbox in his pocket. He squeezed into the tunnel and wriggled forward, holding the candle in his left hand. Ali winced every time his right palm hit the dirt. His fury blocked out the claustrophobia.
About twenty feet into the tunnel, a draft of cool air brushed his face and the candle went out. Rotten-smelling air wafted into Ali’s nostrils. The stench reminded him of a reptile, perhaps a crocodile. He heard something hissing. Ali shoved some loose dirt forward and listened. The hissing multiplied. He slid his hands forward and felt the tunnel curving down sharply. He relit the candle and held it forward. It did not bring much light, but Ali saw that he had reached the tunnel’s end, where a black chasm separated it from the opening of another dark tunnel, straight ahead. There was a dirt wall to the chasm’s right and a wooden door to the left. The door had a lock below the knob. The five-foot-wide square chasm had a three-inch metal edge on each of its sides, level with the bottom of the door. A small metal handle was attached to one of the edges. There was nowhere around the chasm to stand. The reptilian smell continued wafting from below.
“Melinda?” No answer.
Ali blew out the candle and stuck it in the back of his shorts. He returned to the tomb room, grabbed the ladder from the pillar and slid it into the tunnel. He crawled behind the ladder and blindly forced it forward through the dirt, over the foul-smelling chasm, and into the opposite tunnel. He pushed the ladder a few feet more until it was securely positioned above and across the chasm. Ali crept across the ladder to where the reptilian smell was most intense. He swallowed to ease the nausea, then relit the candle. The hissing grew. Ali was positioned directly above the chasm with the doorknob a foot to his left. He tried the key. The door unlocked and he kicked it in. Carefully holding the candle, he extended his body, secured his footing in the doorway, and stepped into another stone room.
He gently waved the candle from side to side. The room was larger than the one with the tombs. Against a wall stood several mummified animals. Two were cats, the rest were bulls and calves. They were exquisitely crafted, of museum quality. Above the animals, Ali noticed a recess in the wall with an inscription: Reed Lester Belcher I Born: February 11, 1915 Died: November 2, 1961. He spotted a table overflowing with jewels. He shined the candle on something below the table, and squatted down to the stone floor. There lay Melinda, unconscious. He caressed Melinda’s hair and grazed a huge lump on the side of her head, bigger than his. He slid his palm underneath her head and gently lifted. She slowly opened her eyes.
“Melinda, you’re safe. I’m here.”
“Where am I?”
“I’ll tell you later. Right now, we’ve got to move. Can you walk?”
“I think so.” Melinda slowly got to her feet. She felt the lump on her head and moaned.
Ali led Melinda across the ladder in the direction of the tomb room, repeatedly saying “easy now” to cover up the hissing from below. When they made it off the ladder, they hugged.
“It stinks in here,” said Melinda.
“I know,” said Ali.
“It’s coming from below. What the hell is that?”
“Some sort of trap door. There’s lot of…um, sewage down there.”
“Doesn’t smell like sewage,” said Melinda. Dirt crumbled on top of their heads.
“Never mind. We need to get the hell out of here.” Ali flashed the candle around. “How did Belcher get you down here, anyway?”
“Through some sort of passageway from the basement.”
Ali looked into the opposite tunnel. It was dark. “Do you remember how long it was?”
“No. I only remember crawling through it. Just before getting clocked over the head.”
“Let’s go this way,” he said, pointing to the tomb room. “We’ve got to go fast. Just keep crawling until the end, then lower yourself down.” Ali waited until Melinda reached the room before blowing out the candle. He crawled forward in the dark, dragging the ladder behind him. About five feet from the tomb room, dirt fell in front and on top of him. Melinda screamed. Dust entered Ali’s lungs. He thrust his body from the tunnel and yanked out the ladder in the nick of time as the tunnel completed its disintegration. After Ali regained his breathing, he hugged Melinda and held her for ten seconds.
“You were right about Jerry all along,” said Melinda. “He’s a prejudiced asshole.”
“What convinced you?”
“Mom,” said Melinda. “Said she got tired of his Islamophobia. She told him to get the hell out of her life.” Melinda noticed the paint cans. “That asshole Reed kidnapped me to get to you. He wants you to paint the coffins for him and his wife. And then God knows what.”
Ali pondered Melinda’s revelation. “He can’t hurt me now,” said Ali. “He’s dead. Jerry probably is, too. He fell through the trap door.”
“What?”
“Those two were in cahoots about something sinister. But never mind, Melinda. We’ve got to get out of this hellhole.”
“Reed must have wanted you to fall through the trap door.”
“Not necessarily,” said Ali. “Egyptians often built booby traps to prevent the looting of their tombs.”
“Egyptians? Reed was an Egyptian?”
“I doubt it,” said Ali. “But that’s what he and his wife believed in.” With his arm wrapped around Melinda, Ali showed her the mummy of Frances.
“The Belchers must have been devoted believers in life after death. In the tombs, I found boxes of what most likely is meat. That’s how she’s supposed to carry on. Along with a specially painted coffin that will magically prepare her spirit for the afterlife. It’s all based on ancient Egyptian tradition.”
“Weird,” said Melinda. “I don’t want any part of it.”
“Stay here for a second while I put up the ladder.”
Ali dragged the ladder to the bottom of the open pit and looked up to find the ground’s sturdiest edge. He began to lift the ladder, but set it down after seeing the impaled Wayne. With all his remaining might, Ali hoisted Wayne’s body off the spear and rested it in the shade. Then he raised the ladder and leaned it against a solid edge of the ground above. He returned to Melinda and escorted her to the ladder. After she scaled it, Ali called up to her. “I need to blow out the candles.”
He carried Wayne to Reed’s coffin and placed him inside. He crumpled up Reed’s note, put it in his pocket, and slid a lid over the coffin. Then he climbed the ladder and joined Melinda. Dusk was approaching. Ali studied the ground.
“Doesn’t look like it rained a drop,” he said.
Melinda observed Ali’s wounds. “We’ve got to get you to a hospital.”
“There must be a road around here somewhere,” said Ali. “How else could Belcher live here?”
Melinda helped Ali limp toward the farmhouse debris. His legs began itching. He stopped to scratch them, then they continued. He stopped and scratched again.
“Looks like you’ve got poison ivy,” said Melinda. “I’ll probably get it too. For the millionth time.”
“This has been the campout from hell,” said Ali.
“That’s an understatement,” said Melinda. “Serves us right for ignoring the tornado warning.”
They made it to the wreckage and found a gravel road nearby. Jerry’s car was parked on the side. There was no key in the ignition.
“Dammit,” said Ali.
“I’ve got to go for help,” said Melinda.
“Help could be miles away. And neither one of us is in any condition to walk that far. Especially in the dark.”
They sat down in some grass. Ali placed his arm around Melinda’s shoulder. After twenty minutes, a motor sounded from a distance. Ali saw a pickup truck round a curve. He waved at the driver, who stopped the vehicle and stepped out. He was a park ranger. He had gray, sweaty hair underneath a cowboy hat, and wore a dirt-stained, khaki work shirt. Ali and Melinda slowly stood up. Then someone exited the truck’s passenger side.
“Mom!” Melinda ran and she and her mother embraced.
“Oh, I’m so happy you two are all right!” Melinda’s mother had tears in her eyes.
The park ranger placed his hands on his hips. “Looks like the tornado leveled the Belcher place, too. Storm wiped out almost everything within a twenty-mile line.” He glanced at Ali’s wounds. “Storm did a number on you too, son.”
“It’s not that bad,” said Ali. “But we’ve got to get Melinda checked out. She took a nasty hit on the head.”
“Police will be here soon,” said the ranger. “They’re backed up, but they’ll be here. I’ll call an ambulance.” He pulled out his phone and made the call.
Ali walked over to Melinda. He and her mother lifted her into the truck’s cab. Melinda’s mother closed the door, leaving her daughter inside. She took Ali’s forearm and pulled him aside. “Did Melinda tell you about Jerry?”
“Yes she did, Mrs. Steelman. That’s his car.” Ali pointed.
“Oh my God. He’s here. Did you see him?”
“Yes, but I think he’s dead now.”
“He is?” Mrs. Steelman’s eyes were wide open and unblinking.
“Yes. I’m sorry. I know how much you loved him.” Ali placed his hand on Mrs. Steelman’s shoulder. She held the side of her head and gazed across the farm.
“We were on the outs, but this is still a shock.” Mrs. Steelman was quiet for a moment. Then she looked over at Melinda seated in the truck. “The good news is that you and Melinda are alive.” She leaned in close to Ali. “Why didn’t you tell us you were an interpreter for the army?”
“How’d you know that?”
“I spoke to your mother.”
“You did?”
“She called our house when you didn’t answer her call or texts. She and your brother got their visas.”
Ali outstretched his arms at the sky, then wrapped them around his soon-to-be mother-in-law.
Mrs. Steelman added, “She also told me about something you were planning. That you hoped she could see in person.”
Ali surveyed the mess between him and the campground. “I’ll have to buy another ring. Or maybe I’ll ask the ranger for a metal detector.” He paused. “On second thought, let the police find it. Or wait for an archaeologist.”
Bio: Brian P. Kalfus has a lifelong love of reading. He enjoys literature for the emotional power of a perfectly written scene. After working many office jobs, Brian rekindled his love of stories by writing his own. He has been published in the Chamber Magazine. In addition to literature, he enjoys reading popular fiction, history, and The New York Times. He resides in Missouri.
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