Quarry

 

Fog clung low to the quarry, curling around the rusted fence and drifting across the gravel path like smoke from a long-dead fire. Just past midnight, a single car crept up the old access road, headlights off, engine barely above a whisper.

The driver didn’t get out right away.

For a moment, the car idled, its windows dark. Then the door opened, and a figure stepped out—tall, hooded, gloved. They moved with purpose but no urgency, circling to the trunk. A soft click. A slow creak of hinges.

The bag was heavy. It took both hands to lift it—thick canvas, stained dark, its shape lumpy and shifting. The figure didn’t look at it. Didn’t pause.

They carried it to the quarry’s edge where the ground crumbled into nothingness, the pit below swallowing sound. The figure stood for a breathless second, silhouetted against the pale mist, then gave the bag one firm push.

It fell. Vanished into the depths.

No splash. No thud. Just silence.

The figure waited, listening. For what, even they might not have known.

Then they turned, walked back to the car, and disappeared into the fog.

The quarry was quiet again. Almost like nothing had happened.

Almost.

***

200 words

Short but not sweet. I wanted something creepy, almost like a prologue to a murder mystery book.