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The old house was situated no more than 15 yards from a cliff that plummeted away into a yawning pit of blackness. Below, in that absence of light, I could hear the thundering sound of churning water. I shoved the beam of the flashlight out over the edge, but it was swallowed up by the nothingness. The swirling fog created a dance of twisted ghostly shadows. |
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Somehow the water had to be working its way through some kind of channel or underground entrance into a walled canyon, and if there was a canyon, if there was water, then there were caves. Bingo, Elliott old boy, another piece of your puzzle has just tumbled into place. |
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Apparently no one knew about this canyon. The sweeps had been made from the shoreline in, across the natural bridge that sheltered the hidden inlet. The teams had confused the sounds of the rushing waters with the natural sounds of the bay, and the fog had done the rest. |
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It was information that had to be shared. |
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I went back around to the front of the house and knocked for a second time. When there was no answer I did a repeat of the old shoulder to the door trick. It swung open without a protest. |
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My eyes were still trying to adjust to the minimal light of the flickering candle when I heard the ominous click-click of the old woman's double action 12 gauge. |
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