The Bodies Of Missing Girls Have Been Showing Up In Our Small Town, And The Locals Are Starting To Fear A ‘Time Traveling Serial Killer’

The chicken fried steak sandwich served up by The Hot Corner Café, just 25 feet from cash register, a give-a-penny, take-a-penny jar and a female cashier with a lit cigarette tattooed on her hand, was shockingly good. The bowl of white gravy it came with was the key. I received my first lead via the loud mouth of Bruce Rollins when I was sopping up the last of the savory gravy with toasted bread.

“Y’all know that Carter fellow is going to come up before this is all said and done,” Bruce’s cigarette-marinated rasp trickled a few seats down the bar of the café and into my ears.

I looked down the bar and saw Bruce’s magnificent gut wrapped in a ripped and stained Big Johnson’s Racing t-shirt. He leaned towards the waitress and went on from behind a thick pair of glasses, a bulging head of stringy gray hair and a face as red as a baboon’s ass.

“I’m telling you right here, right now, Harry Carter has something to do with this,” Bruce reiterated.

I knew Bruce was full of shit 95 percent of the time, but that was the problem. Those old bullshiters who peppered the town with homespun yarns about old football glory, run ins with “pussy” and warnings of the cities creeping in on the town always had legit story or tip one out of about every 20 times. So you just had to hear them out and decide for yourself.

Talk of old Harry Carter did interest me. Harry Carter was about the only wealthy or mysterious thing in Riverbend County. He made ungodly amounts of money in California in the 50s in manufacturing, but decided one day to sell out, pack it up and move up to Riverbend County for reasons unknown in the 60s.

Harry Carter kept to himself and had a rotating parade of assistants who did his shopping and errands. The only time anyone ever really saw him was occasionally at the gas station or driving on the highway in or out of town.

“I met him, years ago in the station buying a Coke. Strange fellow. Kind of guy you would see in a Hitchcock film back in the day. Tall, gaunt, soft spoken, but you could tell he meant business. Not sure exactly what kind of business though,” I listened to Bruce start his tale.

“They have that big warehouse up on Adler Hill, right?” I asked.

“Yeah, that’s where the houses are too, supposedly. No one has ever actually been up there. He had a frickin heart attack a few years ago and just drove down to the outside of his gate and called 911. He wouldn’t even let the ambulance up there. The word is there is like five or six houses up there though.”

Bruce took a big swig of his coffee and scanned around the station real quick.

“He has people come in and out to work at that warehouse though. Something goes on up there and if I were you, I’d march up there and ring the doorbell. Poke around a little bit now that we got god damn time-travelin dead girls showing up. Ain’t the time to be reclusive,” Bruce went on.

A black call box greeted me at the end of the winding road which snaked up Adler Hill and the Carter property. I took in a deep breath and hit the red button on the box. I stared up at the thick, black, steel gate which towered above me while the box broadcast a ring tone.

“Yes,” an annoyed male voice finally answered.

“Hi. This is Sheriff Green. Is Mister Carter available?”

Long silence.

“What’s this regarding?” The catty voice shot back.

“We have had some dead bodies show up around the county the past week so we have been just going around talking to everyone to see if they have seen anything, or anyone, strange the past few weeks.”

“Strange?”