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The Necklace

The sound of the splash was muffled by the overhanging trees. Ripples spread out, lessened and disappeared. Insects resumed their buzzing in the heavy summer air.

Diana stepped back from the riverbank, and dropped her improvised spear to the grass.

“No está muerto,” she said aloud. No. He… it… wasn’t dead, only asleep again. For how long? A generation? A hundred years?

Far overhead, clouds rose and pinnacled into fantastic shapes as detailed as ivory carvings. In the distance she heard the faint roar of trucks on the interstate: a normal sound, an American sound, reminding her of how far she was from home, how far she had come from Granada.

The dark water flowed on by with its senile murmur and chuckle, telling itself the oldest story in the world.

She took off the necklace and flung it as far as she could. It sparkled for a moment in the bright sun, then plopped in the river and was gone.

horror
By: Chris Smallwood |

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