Tiny Horror

Riverside Cemetery didn't feel like a place for monsters. As Jim drove his sedan through the arched stone gates, the late afternoon sun was filtering through the budding branches of ancient oaks, casting long, soft shadows over the rolling hills. The Fox River moved sluggishly at the bottom of the bluff, its surface shimmering like hammered lead.

He parked near the older section of the grounds, where the Victorian obelisks stood like a jagged, stone skyline. To find the Blood plot, you had to head toward the northern edge, away from the prestigious families and the well-manicured paths. Even in death, the legend of Kate Blood was kept at a distance.

Jim hiked along the ridge, his boots sinking occasionally into the soft, thawing turf. The air was cool, but the sun on his neck was a reminder that the winter’s grip was finally failing. He checked a map he’d pulled up on his phone, navigating past weathered sandstone angels and moss-covered tablets until he saw it: a solitary slab of gray granite sitting in the deep shade of a massive oak tree.

He stopped ten feet away, crossing his arms.

"Not exactly the Overlook Hotel," he muttered to himself.

The stone was substantial; a thick, imposing monument that bore the name KATE BLOOD and a set of dates that indicated a life cut short in the 1870s. Its sheer size gave it a weight that felt out of place in this quiet corner of the bluff. There were no demonic carvings, no scorched earth, and certainly no red stains. The granite was clean, its surface mottled with patches of pale green lichen.

Jim circled the grave slowly, his journalist’s eye looking for the "hooks" Artie wanted. He knelt down, checking for the warmth the local kids always swore they felt. He touched the stone. It was cold, bitterly so, holding onto the winter’s chill longer than the surrounding air. He inspected the base for any signs of the "bleeding" that gave the legend its name. Nothing. Just damp earth and a few sprigs of persistent crabgrass.

He pulled his battered Nikon D700 from his bag and began to frame a few shots. It was a heavy, aging piece of gear that lacked the lightning-fast autofocus and video capabilities of the newer mirrorless models, but Jim swore by the way its full-frame sensor captured natural light. He tried different angles, low to the ground to make the oak tree look more imposing, and then a few close-ups of the name. But even with his best lenses, the photos looked peaceful. They looked like a quiet memorial to a woman who had died over a century ago.

"This is going to be a reach," Jim sighed, sitting back on his heels.

If he wanted to give Artie a fresh angle, he couldn't rely on the cemetery alone. The silence here was too complete, too mundane. The "horror" was clearly a product of overactive imaginations and the darkness of night. He needed a different kind of authority: someone who dealt in the hard facts that the urban legends tried so hard to bury.

He stood up, brushing the dirt from his slacks. He’d spend an hour at the Appleton Historical Society tomorrow. If there was a real story here, it wasn't written on the stone; it was buried in the archives.

The tale continues...