You live your whole life and then in one second you learn what it's like for primal terror to swallow you, mind and body.

He was standing in the hallway, lit only on his left side by the bulb.

Just as he appeared in the photograph I'd found, he was very small, much shorter than his

brother, my father, Eric. The family had said he'd always been boy-faced and a bit skinny. Now, standing

there, he looked old and sick as well. But he looked angry, too. Not for a moment that I think

he was alive, and some terrible mistake had been made. I knew instinctively that he was not really there, that I was looking at Herman in the depleted

physical state he had died in.

He was wrong, he said again, his whole body trembling slightly.

He jabbed his finger toward me, almost in tears.

I could have been a chemist.

I had the grades.

I think I tried to speak then, but it was stable.

Uncle Herman kept his finger pointed in a threatening way,

as if it were up to me to change the past.

He turned with creaky slowness and took a couple of steps deeper into the hallway, toward the kitchen,

leaving all light behind him, becoming a silhouette.

He turned back just before he reached the threshold of the other room. His face was a

black blur, but his voice was still clear. There's a fourth body, you know, he said, voice,

hoarse. Shovel still in the shed.

Knife Point Horror.

Tales of supernatural suspense written, produced and narrated by Soren Narnia.

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