Write a Mystery with Me, Part 3

I’ve always felt October is the perfect month for mysteries. If you feel the same way, grab your computer and magnifying glass and use today’s photo prompt to write a mystery with me, part 3. Read the latest additions below and then add your inspiration in the comments. To read last week’s installment, click here. Now I’m adding the next part of the story. Anyone can contribute. By the end of the month, we’ll have a mystery!

Slouching down in my seat, I peeked through the steering wheel and watched the van pull into an oversized garage door. Noticing a side door, I left my car in the shade of a big, haunting looking tree and hurried along the perimeter of the property until I could make a discreet beeline to the side door. No window, no answers. Should I open the door? Would it open? Thoughts swirled through my mind as my hand hovered above the rusty doorknob. I gave a quick twist and a fast, smooth tug on the door. I paused and held it open about two inches. When I didn’t hear any explosions or curses, I eased it open far enough to poke my face inside.

The huge building covered an open area with a broken glass roof. Plants, now dying in the cooler fall weather, had sprouted everywhere–in the cracked concrete floor, from crevices in the wall.

I stood still.

Someone was calling. From very far away.

I tiptoed in.

The door at the far end of the enormous room burst open and a man–young man–burst through it. Jer Dunham.

He pounded into the room. He didn’t look anymore dead than his father.

I stepped under some rusty, wrought-iron steps. This made no sense. The coroner said the bodies they’d pulled from the lake near the home belonged to Mr. Dunham and Jer. And the note found in the house seemed to be a suicide note, written by Mr. Dunham.

I barely dared to breathe as Jer ran closer. He stopped only yards from me, looking every which way.

The person was still calling.

He happened to glance in my direction. Our gazes locked, my blood pressure shooting up.

Then Jer raced over to me.

I spun to the door, but he grabbed my arm.

“You’ve got to help me,” he said between pants. “My father’s gone crazy.”

3 thoughts on “Write a Mystery with Me, Part 3

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  1. His face had a desperate, pleading look, and his hair stuck out like it hadn’t been washed in all these weeks that he’d supposedly been dead. The distant voice called again, with an urgent tone. “Jer, get over here! The plane will be here soon.”

    Jer tugged my arm and quickly led me down the wrought-iron steps. He motioned with his free hand for me to keep my steps quiet. We hurried down three flights into a cold, drafty room. A mouse scurried along the far wall, and the hairs on my arms stood up. “What’s going on?” I whispered. Jer flipped off the light switch on the wall. Like most girls from here, I’d once had a crush on Jer, but now I was completely freaked out and could only hope that he wasn’t the one going crazy.

    “Quick. There’s a tunnel in the corner. Please. Help me escape!” He said in a hushed tone.

    “Everybody thinks you’re dead. Where are you going?” I shivered in the dark, again hearing the urgent voice upstairs.

    Jer gently but quickly pulled my arm, apparently toward the tunnel. He whispered, “The coroner. He set it up. Says flying us out of the country is the only way to live again. New identities, new location. But I don’t want to go. Not like that. People need to know the truth. He’s gonna hurt more people. I have to get out and warn them.”

    My toes bumped into the brick wall and I choked down a scream. Jer released my arm and sayid he’d find the hatch to the tunnel. I listened to noisy footsteps clamoring down the stairs, my heart rate picking up again. “Why’s the coroner faking your death?”

    “Cuz he knows that I know about his side job in the drug circle. He needs me dead. And now I think he brainwashed Dad. And just so you know, the coroner knows you’re onto him too. Said he’s seen you and your camera snooping around and you’re next on his list. Heard him with my own ears. Got it!” Next to my shoulder, I felt Jer move and I heard a rusty squeak sound, like an old door creaking open. The steps on the wrought-iron stairs got louder and closer. Faster. Jer says, “It’ll be a long crawl, but we gotta go. It’s the only way.”

    He tugged me toward the sound of the squeaky door and as I ducked down, light filled the room.

    Mr. Dunham’s voice, with the same energy he always announced football games, shouted, “Jer! Who- What’s going on? Doc! You better get down here!”

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