Creepypasta #1009: The Incident At St. Augustine’s Cemetery
Carson Mack’s saloon is the only place in this part of the Old West that has anything resembling an atmosphere. Each night’s the same here; old man Thompson playing tunes on his beaten-up piano, and I hear Gladstone Gathany threatening to shoot his poker pals if they don’t stop cheating.
I finish the last of my whiskey. Carson grabs the bottle and fills me back up without a word. He’s a good kid. He knows to keep his sheriff liquored up; drinking’s been the only thing that helps lately.
My problems started a few weeks ago when the Ogden boy disappeared. Three other children went missing in the same week. It was only when a patron of Carson’s saw seven-year-old Clementine Winder being lead into Sidney Leach’s place that I had a lead.
There was no trace of Clementine, but I put Sidney into a cell for the night. The next morning, I found him hanged.
Three more missing children over the following three days sent me into a downward spiral. Leach clearly wasn’t responsible. I had driven an innocent man to death.
A week later, and I’m sitting at this bar with half of the town’s kids missing and not a goddamn clue as to where they might be.
My thoughts are interrupted by the voice of Seymour Bissell. I glance behind me and see him stumbling through the saloon.
“The cemetery, Sheriff. We found a kid!”
The saloon fills with silence. I’m not surprised; nearly everyone here is missing somebody.
“You need to come see this.”
Almost the whole town follows Bissell to St. Augustine’s chapel, a little way out of town, and we’re there in no time. He stops at the grave of Sidney Leach. Here, half buried in the not-long-since disturbed soil, is a naked child; their throat slit from ear to ear. I look around at the townsfolk, who stare back in slack-jawed disbelief.
“Get your shovels, boys.” I order.
It takes the men until dusk to dig deep enough to reach the coffin. All twenty-one children accounted for in this man’s resting place; all naked and all killed in the same way. There are murmurings of witchcraft circling me, and why not? What else could be responsible for this atrocity?
I toss a crowbar down to Bissell, who now stands atop of Leach’s coffin. He glances at me questioningly for a brief second, but my expression tells him I’m serious. He jimmies in the crowbar and pries open the coffin to reveal… nothing.
It was in the same moment, my whole body filled with dread and fear. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as a cold shudder runs down my spine.
The crowd turn back toward our humble little town, with some of them setting off sprinting. It’s too late; I know it in my heart. For floating through the humid summer air, is the unmistakable sound of children’s screams.
Credits to: MikeTheBoomer
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