Downpour, Part 3

This is the final piece of a 3 part story that started here:

Warning: This part contains graphic sexual content.


His feet sunk deep into the soft, needle-covered earth and the hands of trees brushed at his arms as if trying to embrace him themselves as he ran past. Her light skin almost seemed to glow in the moonless dark beneath the trees, just enough to let him know she was still there ahead: a ghostly specter darting back and forth between the trees.

Then, as if she had simply blinked out of existence, she was gone. He ran on a few steps, then came to a stop, panting, “Where did you… go?” Flynn called out between breaths, looking around. They had been running for a few minutes in a zigzagging path through the forest and he became aware for the first time, looking at the dark shapes of trees, looming in every direction as he was pelted with rain, that he had no idea where he was.

“Miss?” he called out. Waiting for a panicked moment — though whether it was panic because he was lost, or panic that he had lost her, he couldn’t say. Then he heard her giggle. It was soft against the roar of falling rain, but it was distinct, and he turned toward it to find her shape glowing against the darkness, then she slipped out of sight again.

He charged on towards where he had seen her, hearing her laughter rise. He tripped and tumbled forward. The ground had turned into a downward slope and he tumbled several times before coming to a rest sprawled out on his back, listening to what had initially been a girlish giggle and had now grown into a malicious cackle that seemed to come from everywhere.

Among the sounds of the rain, and the laughter, there was also the sound of a creek very nearby. On the hike he had seen a small stream in the forest; if this was it, it had been significantly engorged by the rain.

He climbed to unsteady feet, as he saw her materialize out of the darkness, a woman-shaped ghostly white patch among the outlines of trees and a backdrop of darkness.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

She just laughed and walked straight up to him, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him deeply. Her warm lips felt like boiling water juxtaposed to the cold rain. Flynn’s apprehension dissolved as the laughter ceased and her body pushed against his, both of them gasping for breath between kisses. He felt her pulling him down and followed her to the ground, laying atop her for only an instant before she rolled over on top of him, pushing him into the deep, sticky mud. He found his back supported in the darkness by the mud, but his head was being splashed from the side by the roaring creek. She broke from kissing to move down his body. Flynn tried to scoot with her, away from the water, but before he could, she had a hand between his legs which kept him from moving. If anything, she pushed him further toward the water when he tried to move. In an instant, his boxers were gone, and she was back on top of him, straddling him, her heat surrounding his penis as she rubbed against it, and Flynn gave up trying to get away from the creek.

“Oh my god,” he gasped as he slid inside her.

She moved her body up and down only a few times and his hands ran up her body, one finding its way to cup her breast. She leaned down to kiss him, then sat up, pushing him deeper inside her and he gasped again.

Her right hand came up and began spreading mud across his chest as she rode him faster. Then he felt her hands on his throat, then chin. He could feel pressure beginning to build and was about to tell her to slow down when she began to laugh again. Then she pushed on his chin with alarming strength, his neck bent uncomfortably backwards and his head was submerged in the creek. He struggled to escape, struggled to breathe, but there was no way. She had him pinned and held him with impossible strength, continuing to thrust her body down onto his as he felt his semen begin to leave his body and his lungs start to fill with water.


Ever since the rain had stopped, Sheriff George Mathews had been waiting for a call like this: hoping it wouldn’t come, but knowing that it probably would. The rain had ended the night before, and he had been waiting on edge ever since, pretending to focus on the stack of paperwork on his desk. As soon as he heard Deputy Hank Wilson on the other end of the radio say, “Sir,” he sighed and knew almost exactly what he was about to hear. There was a certain way the word “sir” was said that told him what was coming. “We’ve found a body, you’ll want to get over here,” the voice finished. He didn’t need to be told, though, he was already three steps out the door toward the SUV.

“On my way.”

This was the third year in a row. He knew what he’d find when he got there. Every year, sometime in the first two weeks of June, they’d get a freak rain storm, and when it was over a single male tourist would be found dead in the woods. Naked and drowned: his body out of the water, his head in it. Close inspection (and less close inspection) would lead to evidence that he was probably having sex at the time of his death, but the rain will have washed away any trace of who it was with. The door to the cabin would be open and a woman’s dress made of thin white cloth, approximately size two, simple in construction, and unable to be matched to a manufacturer, would be recovered in the cabin or somewhere between it and the body.

There were no surprises. This fellow, a writer by the name of Flynn Smith, had rented the cabin, failed to check out, and the owner had come by to find the door open, water all over the floor, the man’s car in the driveway, his clothes hanging by a cold fireplace, but the man nowhere to be seen. She had then called dispatch and Deputy Wilson had led the short-lived search for the man, finding him not far from the cabin, at the bottom of a wide ravine. Wilson had known to check out the shortest path to the creek first, which had helped to keep the search short.

There, of course, were small differences. This guy had, it seemed, run out in his boxers. The last one, an accountant from LA named Christoph Mefodiy, had left a trail of clothes from the door of his rented cabin all the way to the stream. The first, a biologist by the name of Lance Benedikt had been found surrounded by his discarded clothing, as if they had been thrown off right before he had been murdered. Though they had all started at cabins in different places, they had all ended up drowned in different locations along Potok Creek. A new piece of information to surface with the Sheriff’s first glance around this cabin had been the appearance of two mugs by the stove with dry teabags in them. This guy had been making tea for whoever killed him, which meant he might have known her. That was new.

Standing over the body now — a new actor in a familiar scene – The Sheriff said aloud the words he’d been dreading. “Damnit, Hank. I guess we’d better call the fucking FBI.”


2 responses to “Downpour, Part 3

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