Haunted Secrets: Tales of Leo Moreland Vol. 1

Witch of the Woods

The surveyor set up the TST and checked that it was working properly. The total station theodolite had never failed him—it was brand-new equipment, after all, and fairly state-of-the-art. But he went through all the steps, following the manual on his iPad, just to be sure.

It’s not because I don’t want to go into the woods, he told himself. I am a professional. I am used to working alone in remote areas. I am not a frightened schoolboy.

Just a few months ago, he had been in Mexico surveying an ancient burial site, working with a team of archaeologists. He enjoyed that kind of work, the sense of contributing to human knowledge. Being near the dead didn’t bother him. He didn’t believe in legends, curses, or ghosts.

Or at least, he told himself he didn’t. He’d been reminding himself of that for a few days now.

The equipment checks were finished. The TST was working fine, a little miracle of modern science. Now he could carry the reflector into the forest, drive that pole into the ground, and control the theodolite remotely. No need for an assistant. A very efficient, modern approach.

Which required him to go into the trees. Alone.

The surveyor glanced back at the highway, just a dozen yards away. He was not far from the outskirts of Nashua in the pleasant and peaceful state of New Hampshire. Cars, trucks, or buses had been passing every few minutes. None were passing now. His van sat looking slightly forlorn. He felt a sudden urge to pick up his gear, get into the van, and drive home. Claim that there was some hitch with the equipment.

Very unprofessional, of course. And he couldn’t afford to blow this job. It was the last day. He’d pretty much covered the whole area. He told himself not to be foolish.

“Think of the money, buddy,” he breathed, the timeless mantra of the regular working stiff. “Baby needs a new pair of shoes.”

He picked up a telescopic pole, checked the black box on top, and wiped the lens of the reflector. It was fine, like the total station. No more excuses to delay. He turned his back on the highway and set off through the trees. A hundred yards or so was all that was needed. He’d determined the lay of the land. After this, it was up to the contractor to rip it up and build a fancy gated community.

The woods were not especially large, just badly overgrown, seemingly left unmanaged for decades. Storm damage and occasional fires had prevented them from becoming completely impassable, but it was still a hard slog. He thrashed at some bushes with the pole to clear a path. A small bird fled, wings beating frantically, and the man felt a pang of guilt at having disturbed it.

Then, he noticed that no birds were singing. They had been just a few minutes earlier. Now, all that disturbed the air was a light breeze stirring the branches above him.

“Scared them, is all,” he muttered. “Focus, for chrissake.”

“For Christ’s sake.”

The words were almost indistinguishable from the restless movements of the trees. He looked around, seeing no one, and told himself that he had not heard someone speak. An overworked imagination, fueled by absurd folktales, had tricked him. He was tired. The sun was far down in the west. A distinct autumn chill was in the air. He needed to get the job done. Then he could take his paycheck and find a place in town that served cool beer.

He forged through the undergrowth for a few more yards, glancing back to make sure he still had a line of sight to the TST. Then, he found a suitable spot for the reflector. He rammed the pole’s spiked tip deep into a drift of leaves beside a fallen trunk. The pole went in easily but then moved. The leaves stirred.

Then a small face appeared, pale and contorted with pain and rage. He had stabbed someone!