Sue Rovens is an indie suspense/horror author who lives in Normal, Illinois. She has written five novels and two books of short horror stories.
Track 9, her second novel, snagged a starred review in Publisher's Weekly (May 2018), her short story, “Coming Over”, from her book, In a Corner, Darkly (Volume 1) was turned into a screenplay and short student indie film by the theater department of Southern Illinois University, Carbondale, and another short story, “When the Earth Bled”, won 2nd place in the Support Indie Authors short story contest. Her three most recent books (Buried, Rage, and Sanctum) are under Plump Toad Press.
Sue owns a blog (www.suerovens.com) which includes interviews with authors, musicians, podcasters, and artists. She is also a current member of both the Chicago Writers Association and the Alliance for Independent Authors (ALLi).
You can find more of Sue’s work right HERE.
THE SHADOW OF SUMMER
by
Sue Rovens
A lone straw hat danced across the hot sand as the wind picked up from the west. It twisted and twirled until it vanished past the rocky cliff on the far end of the shore. Aside from a partially buried beach towel, a kid’s pail and shovel, and a lone Igloo cooler with its ice long melted, the small seaside was eerily desolate.
“I don’t know what to think, Captain,” Aron Welke, a uniformed officer who had been on the force a little over a year, said. “I’ve never seen it crowded here, but on a mid-July weekend? I can’t make heads or tails of it.”
Royce Banion, the captain with sixteen years of experience, was looking for a better answer than a verbal shrug. He was a man who never minced words, nor pandered to emotional outbursts. He dealt in facts, plans, and outcomes.
“I need to know what happened. We logged calls from three different mobile devices that came in minutes from each another - all frantic, all unintelligible, and all dialed from right here,” he said, pointing to the beach. “You were first on the scene. What did you witness?”
Aron shook his head and looked down at the sand. It killed him not to have an answer for his boss, let alone the right one. All he ever wanted was to be a cop like his older brother and his uncle. Now, at twenty-five, he had finally made it. So why did he feel like such an imposter?
“Nothing, sir. This was the exact scene when I called for backup. Honestly, I thought you would have sent Murphy or Tenneyson instead. I never imagined that you…”
“Would show up instead? Look, Welke, you know the size of our department. We barely have enough manpower as is. Murphy and Tenneyson are down near Canyon Creek inlet as we speak. The same damn thing happened there about fifteen minutes after you left for this call. Handful of 911s, dropped signals…and not a real lead in the bunch. If backup was needed, I was it.”
Both men stood side by side and studied the lake, silently searching for the missing piece. The sun’s glare made Aron squint.
“Well, all I can tell you is that I examined the items left here, but without anyone’s ID, wallet, or personal belongings, I’m not even sure we could create a list of people who we should be looking for. Maybe the calls can be traced?”
“Maybe,” the captain said, his eyes still locked onto the body of water. “Maybe it’s simpler than we think. Kid goes out, parents chase after him, they all get swept up in an undertow. Think we should be calling the coast guard for this one.”
“But what about the other calls? Murphy and Tenneyson’s case? There couldn’t possibly be another drowning at the same time just up the coast…right?”
A crackle from Banion’s radio put a stop to the conversation. He reached for the device with a meaty hand and put it up to his mouth.
“Banion.”
Muffled sounds hissed and chirped from the other end.
“Hello? Hello? Dispatch? Donna, is that you?”
Another second or two of garbled transmission, a blood-curdling shriek, and then radio silence.
Banion and Welke eyed each other before speaking in unison.
“Murphy.”
Without another word, both men sprinted up the beach to the captain’s car. Banion stomped the brake pedal, hit the engine, and tore out of the parking lot before heading east on I-98 to Canyon Creek.
Traffic be damned, the captain made what would have been a fifteen-minute jaunt in less than eight. With sirens and lights, most drivers knew enough to get out of the way, but there was always one who refused to placate to the law. Any other time, Banion might have pulled them over, written a citation, and read them the riot act, but today was not that day.
He pitched the steering wheel to the right, skidding into the sand covered parking area, and pulled up next to Tenneyson’s cruiser. While Welke jumped out and checked the vehicle, Banion made a beeline to the beach. Aron caught up to him moments later.
“Nothing, sir. Their car is…”
Welke, panting more from nerves than from the short jog to where Banion stood, stopped in mid-sentence. Their eyes took in a very familiar scene.
Ten and thirteen feet, respectively, from the water’s edge lay the caps and radios of patrolmen Murphy and Tenneyson, all partially buried in the sand. There was no sign of blood, bodies, or anything human. As they inched closer, the ground underneath their feet began to hum.
“You know we need to investigate,” Banion whispered. His comment was directed more toward himself than to his subordinate. He had worked burglaries, domestic violence, petty theft cases, and two murders during his career, but something about this scene terrified him. This felt…unworldly.
Welke gulped. He edged closer to the officers’ equipment and nudged one of the radios with his foot. As he turned to face Banion, an oversized clawed tentacle from the depth of hell shot up, circled around his leg, and yanked him straight down, through, and beyond the sandy shore underneath. A two-foot-wide concave divot remained in the sand where a man had once stood.
Banion’s mouth fell open.
Frozen in horror for only a moment, he trembled and shook himself back into reality, knowing that whatever the hell happened was not only beyond his professional expertise, but beyond his comprehension. He scuttled backwards until his footing touched solid ground. He turned, ran, and dove into the driver’s side of his cruiser, throwing it into gear and sped away.
His only plan was to get help…somewhere…somehow…from someone who knew more than he did.
His car screamed down the I-98, a black and white blur that tore past the sign that read: You Are Now Leaving Innsmouth, Rhode Island. Come Again!