The Crushed Skull

The Sheriff’s Station was a cramped, cinder-block building that smelled of stale tobacco, damp paper, and bleach. Miller marched her past the dispatch desk, where Deputy Kyle was typing on a computer.

Kyle was young—too young for the badge, Cassie always thought. He was handsome in a sharp, predatory way, with slicked-back blond hair and a smile that never quite reached his eyes.

"New collar, Sheriff?" Kyle asked, not looking up from his screen.

"Suspect in the Henderson case," Miller grunted. "Put her in Holding 1."

Kyle stood up. He walked over to Cassie. As he took her arm to lead her to the cell, a shiver went down her spine. His touch was cold. Not weather-cold. Corpse-cold.

He shoved her into the cell and slammed the barred door.

Miller dragged a chair over to the front of the cell. He sat down, backward, resting his arms on the backrest. He looked at her for a long time.

"Talk to me, Cassie," Miller said, his voice softer now, almost paternal. "I know you're in the system. I know you’ve bounced around foster homes. I know you’ve got a record for... erratic behavior. Did Henderson touch you? Is that it? Did you push him?"

"I wasn't there," Cassie said, sitting on the thin cot. "Check the cameras at the group home. I was in my room by 8:00 PM. I didn't leave."

"Then explain the note."

Cassie looked at him. She looked at the lines etched into his face, the nicotine stains on his fingers. She looked at his forehead.

The air warped again.

The silence rushed in.

Miller wasn't sitting in the chair. He was lying on the floor of the station. The linoleum was covered in blood. His hat was knocked off.

And his head...

Cassie gagged. His skull was caved in. A massive, concave depression on the left side of his temple. Blood and grey matter pooled around his head like a halo. He wasn't breathing.

The vision lasted three seconds. Then it snapped back.

Miller was staring at her, frowning. "You gonna be sick?"

Cassie scrambled off the cot and grabbed the bars. "You're going to die."

Miller sighed, standing up. "Is that a threat, Cassandra? Because threatening a police officer is another charge."

"No!" Cassie screamed, tears streaming down her face. "Listen to me! I see it. I saw Henderson drowning before he died. I saw the water coming out of his mouth in the diner! And now I see you."

Miller paused. He saw the genuine terror in her eyes. It wasn't the look of a liar; it was the look of a trapped animal.

"What do you see?" he asked quietly.

"Your head," Cassie sobbed. "Someone... someone crushes your skull. Here. In the station. Or maybe... no, the floor was wood. Rough wood. Not tile. But it’s you. And it’s soon. Within twenty-four hours."

Miller stared at her. He wanted to dismiss it. He was a man of logic. But he had been a cop in Grimsley Hollow for thirty years. He knew this town had shadows that logic couldn't illuminate.

"Rough wood," Miller muttered. "Like the sawmill."

"Please," Cassie begged. "You have to believe me. The killer isn't me. It’s someone else. And they aren't done."