HELL'S HALF ACRE a gripping murder mystery full of twists (Coffin Cove Mysteries Book 2) by JACKIE ELLIOTT (classic literature books .txt) 📗

who appeared from time to time to pluck starfish from the pools or toss rocks aimlessly into the ocean.

They had called to him once to play on the beach, as they tried to spear fish with sticks they had sharpened themselves or attempted to knock “shit-hawks” out of the sky with well-aimed pebbles.

The boy always ignored them and dashed back into the bush.

Now he had become their plaything, a focus of cruel attention whenever they found him. And the whistle was genius, guaranteed to make him run.

Trying not to rustle the dry undergrowth, they followed their prey up the hill.

He was quick, knowing how to navigate around the rotting tree stumps and moss-covered rocks. It was hard for the boys to keep him in sight. They could see by his upright body and lack of hesitation that this was a route that the Whilley boy had run many times before. He didn’t once look down to check his footing.

They nearly gave up. The three came to a halt at the foot of a steep incline. The Whilley boy was nowhere to be seen. The smallest boy put his hands on his knees and bent his head, taking deep breaths.

“We lost him!” the leader said. He was mad. “You slowed us down!” he shouted, pointing at the smallest boy, who flushed red. He didn’t want to be left out.

“Shh!” The middle boy signalled them to be quiet. He pointed upwards, and they saw the Whilley boy running along the top of the ridge above them. He must have circled the incline and doubled back.

The hunters didn’t have time for that.

The three scrambled up the bank, the quickest way to get back in the chase. At the top, the trail was flat and open, and the boys could see their prey in the distance. They took off again, eager not to lose him.

The trail curved to the right and met a gravel road, forming a fork. The boys slowed to a halt. The Whilley boy had disappeared again.

“Over there!”

The leader gestured wildly. About a hundred yards in front of them, obscured by tall cedar trees, was the roof of a building.

This must be where the Whilley boy lived.

The boys stood stock still. The plan had been to chase their prey. They hadn’t thought what to do if they caught him or got near him. Now they were trespassing.

“Let’s go back!” the smallest hunter whispered.

But the leader didn’t want to lose face.

“Let’s look,” he commanded.

The three moved along the trail at a slower pace and hid in the undergrowth as much as possible. As they got nearer, they had to scramble over coils of rotting rope, rusty barrels and stacks of wooden pallets half swallowed by brambles.

The boys followed the trail as it made one last bend to the right, and then they were standing in front of a wooden gate. It had sagged and was half detached from disintegrating wooden posts. From either side of the gate, a badly maintained wooden fence enclosed an overgrown yard. Two old fishing boats sat on blocks, the paint peeling from the hulls, and rusty drums perched precariously on the bows.

A faded sign attached to the fence read “Whilley’s Net and Twine”.

“Ma? Ma!”

The boys, startled at the sound of their prey’s voice, scrambled to get out of view. They could other hear voices. The oldest boy dared to put his head up.

“Holy shit,” he whispered urgently to the other two, “look at this!”

A human mountain shuffled out of a run-down cabin behind the boat debris in the yard. The boards of the decayed deck creaked under the weight of this gigantic creature, with matted grey hair hanging over its face.

“Why are you here?” the Mountain wheezed.

One boy moved, and a branch creaked.

The prey looked round, but they were saved by the Mountain, who gestured with a surprisingly bony hand.

“Go inside.”

The prey did as he was bid.

The Mountain shuffled further outside.

She was covered in a grubby, greying smock that flowed almost to the ground. As she shuffled alarmingly nearer to the boys’ hiding place, they could see swollen ankles and dirty feet.

She edged nearer the fence.

Don’t move! The leader looked fiercely at the other two, who crouched as small as they could get in the undergrowth.

The Mountain stopped just a yard or two away.

She let out a long rasping sigh, and the boys tensed, expecting to be hauled out of the bushes.

Instead, she bent down slowly and hitched up the grey smock high enough for the boys to glimpse matching grey hair matted to her crotch.

Horrified, they watched as she let out a stream of urine that splashed her feet and steamed off the grass.

This was too much.

Unable to stand it any longer, the smallest hunter let out a gurgle of revulsion and turned and ran. The other two followed him, not caring how much noise they made. They crashed through the bush, whooping and running until they rounded the corner on the trail and dived into the bush.

The oldest boy skidded to a halt. The other two bounced into each other and fell to the ground.

They laughed and rolled in the moss, heady with relief at not being caught.

“Did you see? She PISSED herself!”

“And she showed her dirty old ‘C’.”

Shocked into silence momentarily by the hint of that forbidden word, the three looked at each other and started laughing again.

The smallest hunter blurted, “Shh . . . stop . . . do you hear that?”

The oldest boy pulled a face. “I don’t hear noth—” and then he stopped, frozen in fear.

An eerie cackle, high-pitched, got louder and louder.

The boys stood up and turned around, wildly looking to see where the noise was coming from.

“What’s that?” the smallest one asked, near to tears.