What Not To Do In The Valley

Carver Whitley

John was surprised and startled by how committed Kimber was to finding her killer. Spending the entire weekend working with him and continuing even after he'd passed out.

She had a keen eye for tracks and dropped feathers. They pieced together that it was doing something with the trees. Old smudged sketches appeared on the trunks in clusters, sometimes with a few scratches along the lines. 

Kimber tried to copy a few in a sketchbook. 

When he told her he'd be at work tomorrow, she seemed shocked but promised to copy the rest of the drawings at home to the best of her abilities. 

John wondered if the bonfire behind his home had been made for it. The drawings were made with charcoal.

After work, he returned to the burnt-out fire and saw the disturbed ashes, unlike his last visit. The ground was smudged and a few odd pieces were shattered leading deeper into the bushes. 

John walked back to the trees and searched the area for other places suitable for drawing. On the smoother bark, he could just about make out sketched monsters of various styles.

It led him close to the local cult, which he preferred to avoid. Living where he did had caused a few conflicts he'd rather not restart. He knew they weren't the drawing kind of artists. 

He went the long way around their land, climbing rocks to stay as far out of their way as he could. 

He passed some sketches, but they were sparse and less detailed. The trees weren't suitable until he got to the other side of the land. There, they were almost organised, thick, and smooth — perfect for art and yet empty.

He made a note to revisit the land in a few days to see if it changed. The artist drew like they were trying to find the right place for something, sketching so they could step back and judge it. 

John took off his jacket and wrapped it around his waist, warm from walking. He didn't want to go all the way back around so soon but resigned to digging in the dirt below some of the marked trees to make sure nothing was buried. 

He regretted wearing so many layers as he turned back and slowly walked back. 

The wind died down and he was shot in the back. 

The bullet went clean through him and he saw a bloody hole open and stain the front of his brown button-up shirt before he fell onto his arm and blacked out. 

"Shit. It's just bones. I'm not making another damn broth..."

John began to sob as he woke up to more pain than he thought he'd feel that day. It hurt to breathe and he had to cover his mouth and nose to stay quiet. 

He was in a dim room on a cold counter. The light of dusk came through the windows. He could just about see the fridge and basin against one wall. 

John struggled silently to his feet and slowly opened the drawers to find a kitchen knife. 

The floor creaked down the hall and he could faintly see someone. Rummaging for something in the closet under the staircase. 

John limped around the counter, leaning against it for support as he slowly inched closer.

His captor, a short man with messy hair, dropped the tools he looked through and looked to the next shelf before slamming the door and turning to look elsewhere. He muttered to himself indistinctly. 

John walked faster to reach the doorway. "Who are you?" He asked the man down the hall. 

He turned around, silhouetted by the dull glow coming through the front door window behind him. "You're awake?" He exclaimed with surprise.