Uncanny Maiden (standard:horror, 2569 words)
Author: Lev821	Added: Sep 16 2008	Views/Reads: 3314/2282	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Something in the basement. A witch. Missing people. A reporter who goes a little too far really should turn and get out of there.

When he pulled up his Honda Civic in the village, he noticed that there
seemed to be an air of trepidation, of suspicion. It would not have 
surprised him if the locals were watching him from behind their 
curtains, especially with him being a total stranger, and the first 
time he had ever been there, or been so far out of his area, but as a 
reporter for the Lincoln chronicle, he had been sent here to 
investigate the ongoing story of people going missing, and before he 
left his vehicle, he could see two notices featuring different people 
attached to lampposts. In this small, Lincolnshire borough, which 
barely even registered on some local maps, people were simply 
vanishing. It was approximately around once a week, and in the 
Lincolnshire area as well, but not as concentrated as it was around 
this village. The police were suspicious, but as usual, were too busy 
wrapping themselves up in red tape to concentrate properly on the 
investigation. Already three detectives had been assigned to the 
enquiry, and they had paperwork to fill in, superiors to meet, 
permission to seek, money to discuss, and the officers also deigned to 
assist also had more pressing matters to attend to, such as Mrs Howells 
feelings in a nearby bank since she had been called a fat old walrus by 
an anonymous email. Whoever had sent it was in serious trouble. The 
police also had litter louts to fine, and cctv to survey to see who was 
putting their feet up on the seats of trains. It all meant that the 
investigation was very slow, and as a consequence, the main area of 
suspicion was void of policemen, but David Lawrence had hopes of being 
the one to crack the case, to grab the story that would make the front 
page news, not just of the Lincoln chronicle, but the nationals. 

He knew that the local pub was always a good place to start, but in past
experience the inhabitants seemed to band together in their collective 
amnesia. Most people not knowing anything about anything, when David 
knew very well that nobody wanted to be seen as a ‘grass'. As in 
prison, there are only a few things that are worse than being seen as 
this. However, in private, secure in the knowledge that they are 
anonymous, some people begin to remember. They remember  things about 
their family, their close friends, their poisonous words hiding behind 
a mask of inscrutability. So whilst it was tempting to seek out the 
local drinking nest, perhaps to sample some of the local brew, his 
conscience told him, and maybe ask one or two questions, incase people 
were drunk enough to start giving answers, he thought that he would 
probe a few of the citizens, then maybe pass by the pub to seek solace 
in the bottom of a pint glass as relief in having solved the case, or 
in sorrow at ending up back where he started with nothing. 

Armed with a rough notepad and pen, and with a typical reporter's
resolve to eek out the thread that would solve the case, he left his 
vehicle and locked it, deciding to head for the nearest shops where 
rumours start, perpetuate, and evolve. He entered a salon, and found 
that there was a woman in her late fifties sweeping the floor. He 
wondered just how much business a place like this did out here, but 
then that thought vanished as he realised he didn't care. “Hi, excuse 
me,” he said, as the door slowly closed behind him. The woman continued 
brushing for two more seconds before turning to look at him. She nodded 
slightly to herself, as if he was exactly what she had expected, as 
perhaps lately, she had come across others like him. “You're a 
reporter” she said, as a statement. David nodded, his pen poised over 
his pad. “Can I just ask you a few questions?” he said. “No,” said the 
woman. “As it's not me you should be asking. It's the person 
responsible. The last house you pass as you leave this place on the 
right. It's her. I'm sure of it. She's a witch. Who knows what she gets 
up to. That's who it is. Remember ,“ she pointed in the general 
direction of the road he had just driven along, away from the village. 
He scribbled a note on his pad. “That way, on your way out of this 
place. As you leave, the house there”. He caught her antagonistic tone 
of voice, but decided to risk one more question. “Why do you believe 
this person to be responsible?” He looked up at her, and saw that she 
had turned away from him, and was sweeping the floor again. 

He left, and decided to try this house she had mentioned. It was only a
two minute walk along the road, but he decided to drive, and soon 
pulled up outside a semi-detached house, beyond which, a small cluster 
of trees bordered a forest. It was an unkempt place, left to decay. If 
a small hurricane, or storm was to sweep over it, it would probably 
collapse. He left the vehicle, opened the rusty gate and crossed to a 
cream coloured, flaking door. He knocked, but there was no answer. 
After a futile repeated attempt, he walked around the back of the 


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