Tiny Horror

Spring had finally arrived in Appleton, though it felt more like a muddy truce than a victory. The Fox River was swollen and gray, churning with the runoff of a long Wisconsin winter, and the air held that specific scent of wet earth and exhaust. Inside the towering glass-and-steel headquarters of one of the city's insurance giants, Jim Thorne sat under the relentless hum of fluorescent lights, moving numbers across a spreadsheet with the practiced, numbing precision of a senior analyst.

His phone vibrated against the mahogany desk. The caller ID showed Artie, the publisher of Fox Valley Monthly. Jim checked the clock; it was 3:15 PM. He let it go to voicemail, but then the second call came immediately after. Artie didn't believe in waiting.

"Thorne here," Jim whispered, leaning back in his ergonomic chair and looking toward the window.

"Jim! Tell me you're looking at the river," Artie’s voice crackled. He sounded like he was in his kitchen, the distant clinking of a ceramic mug against a counter audible over the line. Artie ran the magazine out of his Victorian house on Prospect Avenue, a setup that allowed him to scream at layout proofs in his pajamas. "It’s thawing out. Everything is coming back to life. I’ve decided to do something we’ve never tried before: a full-blown 'Myths and Legends' issue. Cover to cover, the whole thing."

Jim rubbed the bridge of his nose. "A dedicated issue? We’ve done the folklore columns before, Artie."

"Not like this. I'm assigning a different local myth to every writer on the roster. Sarah's got the 'Haunted Hearthstone,' and Pete’s looking into the 'Ghost of the Fox' again. But for you, Jim... I have your assignment. I want you to anchor the issue with Kate Blood."

Jim suppressed a sigh. "Artie, come on. Kate Blood is the first thing every freelancer in the Valley writes about. It’s the local boogeyman. It’s trespassing bait."

"That’s exactly why I want you on it," Artie said, his tone shifting from casual to persistent. "Everyone else just rehashes the 'Lady in White' nonsense. I want you to go in there and find something new. A fresh angle, a scrap of history; something that makes people realize they don't know the story as well as they think they do."

Jim looked down at his spreadsheet. He was familiar with the legend, of course. Everyone in Appleton was. It was the story of the axe-wielding madwoman, the mother who slaughtered her own infants and was buried in a corner of the cemetery because the ground wouldn't hold her. He’d heard the campfire tales since he was ten: how the massive granite monument would supposedly turn warm to the touch at night, and how blood would pool up on the surface of the stone, weeping for the children she'd lost. To him, it was just a lurid myth designed to keep teenagers from drinking beer in Riverside after dark. He assumed there wasn't a grain of truth to it, but he hadn't actually bothered to look into the woman beneath the stone yet.

"I’ve already got that interview with the chef at the new bistro on College Ave," Jim reminded him.

"The bistro can wait. Legends have shelf life, but I need this for the May print," Artie countered. "Just take a walk through Riverside Cemetery. It's beautiful this year. See if the stone has anything new to tell you."

Jim knew it was a lost cause. Once Artie fixated on an idea from his home office, he didn't let go until there was a draft in his inbox. "Fine," Jim said, reaching for his digital recorder. "I'll head to Riverside after I clock out. But don't expect a ghost story. I'm going to find the history, even if it's just a tragic, boring grave."

"That’s my boy," Artie chirped before hanging up.

Jim set his phone down and looked back at the river. He had no idea that the "new and interesting" angle Artie wanted was about to find him.

The tale continues...