Deadly Night by Aiden James Page A

at lunch was obliterated by the details surrounding Dickey Rollins’ exit from this world.
    By the time eight o’clock rolled around, everyone had indulged in seconds and a generous slice from the dessert pizza. Fading sunlight peered through mature maples surrounding Tom’s property, creating an almost exotic feel, enhanced by the burning torches encircling the deck. Thirty minutes left before I needed to leave, rehearsal was set to start at nine o’clock sharp.
    An emphatic tap on my watch got everyone moving, and we cleared the table in a matter of minutes. The dishwasher in Tom’s custom kitchen whirring in the background, he motioned for us all to follow him back outside.
    Across the yard sat a revitalized small stone and log structure, built not long after the main house was erected. The ‘NVP studio’, as Tom called it. Fresh blue paint upon the door and window frames, the building seemed to glow under the backyard’s security lamps, nestled beneath tall pines and maples that were probably small saplings when it was built.
    Like a little playhouse from some urban fantasy, the studio seemed to beckon us. Ready for its first ‘official’ test drive, perhaps?
    I could hardly wait to put it in gear.

Chapter Seven

    “ You should all watch your step, since the sidewalk has a few ridges that have popped up due to the ground shifting over the years,” Tom advised, as we neared the end of the cement path to his studio. Additional security lights set up in a pair of tall maples turned on just before we reached the building.
    A crude miniature version of the main house, the three-room structure contained smaller stained-glass windows on each side of the doorway. Definitely not designed with a broken-down riding mower and rusted handsaws in mind—which is what Tom said it sheltered when he first visited the property. The floor had rotted through in several places, too, and the roof hung low in one corner. But that’s no longer the case. Everything old and busted had been replaced with brand new materials, starting with a new cedar-chip roof.
    “ Before we step inside, and I should’ve mentioned this to Jackie, Tony, and Angie earlier, take a look at the long cement slab below the window,” he said, pointing a small flashlight at a narrow flowerbed located beneath the window sill.
    We followed him over to it. Most of the slab lay hidden behind a row of rose bushes, just beyond the reach of the security lights’ soft glow.
    “ Jackie, would you mind holding this for a moment?”
    Tom motioned for her to take the flashlight. Then he carefully pulled the plants away from the slab. Fiona was the first one to gasp this time, and only because she immediately understood what the words and numbers meant, illuminated clearly by the flashlight’s bright beam.
    Nathaniel Smith…born January 24 th , 1893…died July 7 th , 1945.
    “ Now that’s jacked up!” said Justin, while the rest of us…well let’s just say the rest of us were murmuring. Unfinished, nonsensical thoughts, like a Sunday Pentecostal service. “You mean to tell me some dead guy is buried here, in your yard? ”
    “ So it would seem,” said Tom, chuckling. “When I first noticed it a couple of months ago, it gave me a start too. I should’ve told everyone then…. But, as it turns out, no one is actually buried here. At least according to the state archives. Mr. Smith is buried in Chattanooga. Apparently, this is just an extra marker.”
    He turned toward us, smiling. It must’ve been a sweet moment for him…all of us with mouths hung open until we realized there really wasn’t a body here.
    “ I might add that Nathaniel was the second to last owner of this property, right on up to his death in 1945,” added Tom.
    Well, maybe the sucker’s buried here after all. I shuddered for a moment, and Fiona did too. Not a good omen.
    “ Come on in, everyone,” he said, ushering us inside. “Let me show the best evidence to Jimmy, and if anyone