MicroHorror

I knew my dad would be upset, but he’d been drinking, too, which made it worse.

“How many times have I told you little fuckers to stay away from those caves?”

He led me by the forearm out of the house and to the truck. Later I’d have to hide the bruises I got where his fingers squeezed. I climbed into the passenger seat. My dad threw a length of rope in the back, started up the pickup and peeled out of the driveway.

“You’re both getting the belt when we get home,” my dad snarled. I had already assumed as much.

We pulled up to the mouth of the cave and got out. My dad grabbed the rope, and I led the way. About fifty yards into the cave I stopped, pointing to the spot where rotting planks partially covered a hole in the ground. My dad knelt down and peered into the darkness.

“Scotty?” he called, leaning forward. “Are you all right?”

A gentle shove with my foot was all it took to upset my dad’s balance and send him tumbling seventy-five feet to his death. My brother Scotty materialized from the shadows. We shared a high five and dialed 9-1-1.