Young Whit and the Shroud of Secrecy

by Phil Lollar

  Again his father’s voice shook him from his trance. “John! Listen to me. You took the cloth to the water tower? Did you leave it there?”

  “No.”

  “John, where is the cloth now?” His father’s face had turned from excitement to panic.

  Johnny searched his mind for the answer. Did I get it back? Yes, I’m sure of it. Where did I put it? I came home and . . . the shed!

  “It’s in the shed,” he said, “out in the shed!”

  He jumped up from the couch, tore through the kitchen, and bolted out the back door. Harold was right behind him. They raced across the lawn and into the shed.

  “I rolled it up,” he said, sliding boards away from the gap between the workbench and the shed wall. “Yeah, I rolled it up and put it right . . .” He reached into the gap.

  It was empty.

  He probed around with his fingers, jamming his hand down into the gap as far as it would go, scraping his knuckles.

  Nothing.

  Harold grabbed the workbench and wrested it from the shed wall. The boards splintered with a loud crack! They both peered into the open space.

  The cloth was gone.