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    Murder, From Creepy to Bizarre: Short Stories
    Murder, From Creepy to Bizarre: Short Stories
    Murder, From Creepy to Bizarre: Short Stories
    Ebook137 pages2 hours

    Murder, From Creepy to Bizarre: Short Stories

    By Saundra McKee

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    About this ebook

    Four creepy to bizarre stories of murder are set in western Pennsylvania. In "Murder on the Altar," a young minister is found bludgeoned to death on the altar of his church. In "Nazi Treasures: Murder at the Lighthouse," a hunter of Nazis, their sympathizers and Nazi treasures is killed in her quest for revenge. In "Murder at the Mill," a young woman is haunted by childhood memories of witnessing her father kill a stranger. And in "Stealing Rigel: A Serbian Street Dog in America," a man is murdered in the bizarre kidnapping of a dog that no one wanted. The four contemporary stories are a total of approximately 144 pages in length.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSaundra McKee
    Release dateSep 8, 2011
    ISBN9781465966773
    Murder, From Creepy to Bizarre: Short Stories
    Author

    Saundra McKee

    I am a retired educator. I taught in the public schools for 15 years and at the university level for 22 years. I love to travel the world. I enjoy politics, dogs, mysteries and water sports. I am a lay speaker in the United Methodist Church.

    Read more from Saundra Mc Kee

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      Book preview

      Murder, From Creepy to Bizarre - Saundra McKee

      Murder from Creepy to Bizarre: Short Stories by Sandy McKee

      Death at the Old Mill by Sandy McKee

      All characters and events in this story are fictional. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental. While some of the places mentioned actually exist, they are used in an entirely fictional manner.

      Published by Sandy McKee at Smashwords. Copyright 2011. Sandy McKee.

      Prologue

      1957

      Most people agree that certain events in their lives are pivotal. Whether they realize it at the time or not, some juxtaposition of happenings make an impact that cannot be erased. These circumstances continue to haunt and influence all other events that follow.

      I was seven and one half years old in October 1957. Even at that young age, I somehow realized that I was the responsible adult in our small family. It was up to me to keep everyone safe…to keep everyone from destroying themselves and each other. I was big for my age and pretty clumsy when it came to tap dance and piano lessons, but for a girl in the fifties, I had a certain toughness. I loved the outdoors and could spend hours in the tree house that my dad had built for me reading books or just thinking about what my life could be like. I was outspoken too. I stood up for the kids who I thought were bullied at school. Unlike my older brother and mother, I wasn’t afraid to voice my opinions to my father.

      My brother was over ten years older than me. He was born shortly after my father left to spend four years on a remote Pacific Island. By the time dad returned from the war, opportunities to form a strong bond with his only son seemed to have dissipated. Bobby was tall, muscular and handsome like my father, Bob, but he lacked his keen intellect and curiosity. He preferred to spend his time working on the local farms. He loved tractors and nurturing the animals, vegetables, and other crops he found there. Bobby was like my mom, calm, gentle and sensitive. My father constantly berated him, demanding that he prove himself to be the best at shooting a gun, landing a trout, building a house, arm wrestling or holding his liquor. It incensed my father that Bobby showed no interest in his Hemmingwayesque (my word) pursuits. No one seemed surprised when Bobby enlisted in the army as soon as he graduated from high school and got as far away from western Pennsylvania as possible.

      My mother was the ideal fifties parent. Everybody said that she bore a strong resemblance to Roy Roger’s beloved wife, Dale Evans. Looking back on her photographs, she was even prettier. But to a cowgirl of that period who loved watching Gunsmoke, I was thrilled. My mother was an only child and came from money compared to most families in our small town. Her father owned a small business and was able to send her away to boarding school for high school and eventually a college education. My grandparents were strict in religious terms. Their television set was never turned on on a Sunday. They lived in a large white house that was one of the finest in town. Years later I’d learn that a seventh grade drop out from a mining town was not who they’d hoped their only child would marry. Marrying my father was likely the most rebellious thing she’d ever done. But she was twenty one at the time and had fallen hard for the tall handsome roller skating instructor. They eloped in Maryland. Her parents saw to it that they had a nicely furnished home near their own. They reserved comment when she’d make excuses for his not showing up at weekly family dinners. They made sure bills were paid when her Bob lost jobs. They didn’t seem to acknowledge the questionable bruises that would sometimes appear on their daughter’s arms and face. My mother always smiled and made excuses.

      I was born over twelve years after they wed. My father was my hero. He was more handsome than any of the television or movie stars that I’d seen. He was funny and witty and always the life of the party. He told stories of mysterious faraway places and made nearby places exciting with the twists he’d spin. There were trees that grew money near our house. He knew leprechauns on a first name basis and he’d fought off the Abominable snowman on several occasions. He read books and magazines constantly and encouraged me to do the same. Our vacations were to historical sites and the nation’s capital. We discussed politics constantly. He never failed to tell me how smart I was and how I could be anything that I wanted to be.

      Two days in October of 1957 changed everything for me. Our country was agonizing over the Russian’s ability to conquer space. I thought they were just cruel to send a helpless dog into the unknown and said as much. My parents just smiled and shook their heads. My mother and I went grocery shopping after school one day. She became deathly ill in the middle of the detergent aisle. I panicked. I’d never seen her so sick. We were able to get to our doctor’s office next door. What happened then became a blur to me, but I remember my father coming to get me and going to the hospital. Over the next few days, I stayed with my grandparents and got news that my mother was getting stronger following surgery. I wasn’t clear on exactly what had made her sick, but heard my grandmother speak of female problems. By the end of the week, my dad said he could sneak me in to see her and that she was going to be fine. He also said I could come home and stay with him if I wished. Of course I did. I loved my grandparents, but tired of the perfection of their house, clothing, meals and lifestyle. I missed the more relaxed atmosphere of our own home.

      My mother looked and seemed healthy and ready to come home when I saw her in the hospital room. But the doctors insisted that she needed to be there at least three more days. My dad and I left feeling jubilant that the crisis had passed.

      He suggested that we make a short trip to the mining town where he grew up to deliver the good news to his mother, a widow in her seventies. Unlike my mother, my father came from a large family with ten children. His father, a coal miner and then the town constable, had died when my father was overseas. We usually gathered at his mother’s house every Saturday evening for good food, drink and visits with my many aunts, uncles and cousins. Where my mother’s mother was tall, thin and strict in her bearing, my father’s mother was short, chubby and relaxed. She was able to tell stories about the old days and never failed to mention the fact that I was so special to her because I was her ‘first’ granddaughter. She also seemed to sense that she needed to ‘explain’ my father to me at times. You know he came from a rough town and had to fight for everything. Everybody drank too. He’s a good man, but sometimes, he drinks too much. He’s so lucky to have your mom.

      I’d always nod and smile understandingly. Dad never said much about the war, but somehow I knew it was a game changer for everyone. He came home with physical and mental wounds that had not yet healed. I imagined that my dad had bayoneted thousands of Japanese during the war and was entitled to drink to erase those awful memories.

      That night when we left his mother’s house, dad said he was going to stop for a drink at one of his favorite bars. This was not unusual. My father didn’t drink all the time, but every few weeks or so, he’d seem to need to have some beers. We always hoped for beers because that made him mellow. Whiskey made him mean. Sometimes my mother and I would go into the bar with him and sit and drink cokes and eat potato chips. Other times, we’d sit in the car and wait. I knew she worried about him driving the car. I’d complain but my mother would shush me and say to make the best of it. That night dad didn’t give me a choice. It was already dark. He assured me he wouldn’t be long and that I should lock the doors, lie down on the back seat and take a nap and not open the doors for anyone. I wasn’t afraid. It was another small town and I’d been there many times when my mother was there too.

      I dozed off and woke hearing dad unlock the door. He was talking about me having school the next day and packing my lunch. I was sleepy and drifted off again. The next thing I knew, I heard the car stop and my dad say, What the hell? You stay here. I have to go talk to this guy.

      He left the headlights of our 1953 Chevy on and I could make out the outline of a man standing about thirty feet from the car. The man was holding something but I was unable to see what it was. I suspected I needed glasses but had been avoiding telling my parents or teachers about that, fearing I’d look even goofier with ‘four eyes’.

      I then heard shouting between the man and my dad. I could see that they were pushing and shoving each other and taking swings at each other’s bodies. I felt sick at my stomach praying that everything would be okay. I’d seen my father’s temper on several occasions and knew he could be fierce. Suddenly I saw one of the figures raise something and crash it down over the head of the other. I started to shake, certain that I was going to throw up. I wanted to look away but I couldn’t. I wanted to go help my dad but doubted I could do much. I saw one of the figures fall over the hillside while the other looked on. I realized we were near the old mill only a few miles from our house. I thought of the happy times when my dad had brought me fishing here, realizing it would never have joyful memories again. The standing dark figure limped towards the car. I recognized my dad and breathed a sigh of relief. Dad, are you okay? Who was that man?"

      My father’s face was covered with blood. He pulled his shirt off and wiped his face. Terry, that guy wanted to kill me. I had to defend myself.

      Dad, is he dead? I asked, wanting to know but fearing the answer.

      "I imagine so. It was him or me. You know we can’t tell anyone about this. I’ve had some drinks and it won’t look good. It’s best that we just go on like it never happened. I

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