H. R. Harrison's 3 Tales of Terror

“10-4, I’ll remain on the scene until Homicide Investigators get here.” He sat down on the hood of his car and tried to remember the last time he had spoken to his dead friend. Somehow he drew a blank and then thought about whoever in hell did this was probably still on the road. Still out there, in the dark, foggy night.

At the little Police Station the old cop was trying not to nod off while squinting to read a book. The girls were sound asleep. Once in a while the cop would hear snoring coming from the back cells. Suddenly, the phone rang and startled the old cop.

“Bremar Sub-Station, Officer Carlton speaking.”

The voice on the other end of the phone was the State Highway Patrol informing the Officer he had found the dead patrolman. He told him to keep the girls there because the Officer in Charge would be delayed waiting for Homicide and the ME.

The old cop assured them the girls would be safe and waiting when the officer arrived. He hung up the phone and went to make another pot of coffee.

The big rig was winding its way down the Interstate. The evil trucker was scanning all directions looking for those girls. Then a sign caught his eye. Bremar Falls Exit, Ten Miles.

“Um, huh. I bet them bitches hauled ass in there looking for help. Well, I’ll find out shortly. This is my neck of the woods. I’ll call on some family to see if‘n they want to add three city whores to their collection. I know Paw will want to try em out if Maw don’t skin em first.

Hawwwwww. The rig slowly moved onto the ramp along tree-lined roadways like a snake through the deep woods. Just as the rig was almost around the bend from the Police Station, he made a sharp right-hand turn down a long narrow dirt road leading back into the swamps right past the swirling waters of Bremar Falls.

The old cop rose up in his seat to listen. He thought he had heard the distinctive sound of a semi-rig slowing down. He walked to the door, opened it up, and looked up and down the street. He said, “I must be too tired or too wired on caffeine.

“What the hell.” He poured another cup of coffee and sipped it steaming hot.

“Got to be tired cause I ain’t never too wired,” he laughed.

The big rig drove slowly along the dirt trail that it began to buck like a sick bucking bronco.

“Ah, hell, just another mile and I’ll drop this dead weight, Ole Kwopper.”

The truck seemed to smooth out as if it understood what the demented driver was saying.

“Atta girl,” whispered the evil trucker.

Back at the scene of the dead Highway Patrolman, two homicide detectives arrived on the scene and the ME followed shortly. After the Duty Officer talked with them and helped them tape off the crime scene, he got back into his cruiser and pulled onto the highway.

“Patch me through to Bremar Falls, Dispatch.”

“10-4.”

The old cop was startled when the radio crackled. “Bremar Falls P.D. This is the Highway Patrol.”

“Go ahead, this is BFPD.” I’m the Duty Officer.

“I’m on my way to talk with those girl’s. Did you get a script of the suspect vehicle?”

“10-4,”came back the old cop. It is black semi-rig with a sleeper and the girls said it might be a Peterbilt.”

“Copy that,” said the Highway Patrolman. “I’ll be there real soon,”

“10-4. This is BFPD out.”