This is one of my stories from Suppose: Drabbles, Flash Fiction, and Short Stories.

Professor Hamilton is an odd sort. One of his students disappeared three years ago on an archaeological dig. Rumors circulated that Hamilton might have killed his protégé. But why would a respected professor of archaeology commit murder? Is Bradley Wilson about to become one of his victims?

—

“Freeze!” A gravelly voice barked its ominous warning from behind me and echoed through the depths of the cave. Recognizing the authoritative tone of Professor Hamilton, otherwise known as Prof Creepo, I raised my quivering hands and tried not to look at the body near my feet.

Our last dig of the semester. Newly discovered documents revealed that this chamber concealed hidden treasure in a northeast corner. One of Hamilton’s archaeological students, Yves Turgeon, had disappeared three years ago. The police questioned the professor, but nobody ever found a body or evidence of murder.

Until now.

“What’s the matter, Professor Hamilton? Do you intend to kill me because I know your secret? You’re the one who murdered Yves. Perfect place to conceal the body: a cave in an old dig that’s already been combed through.”

The professor’s shadow grew longer as he shuffled closer. “Don’t move.”

I cursed and wondered what kind of weapon he might have. Pistol? Stun gun? Knife?

My classmates remained silent. Why didn’t they come to my rescue? I could hear them breathing and rustling. One of the girls was even close enough for me to smell her lavender shampoo.

I tried to sound calm, even though my legs felt like they were about to give way, as I gazed at the remains splayed face-down before me. School ring on one finger. Tattered clothes that looked like they had been gnawed through by rodents. A cobweb-covered flashlight several meters away. “How did you do it? The police classified it as a missing-persons case, yet here he is, with a huge hole in his head.”

“Mr. Turgeon died quickly, and you’re about to join him unless you listen very carefully to what I say.”

“Why me? You figure you’ll get rid of me the way you did him? This time you have witnesses. You can’t kill us all.”

“You haven’t paid attention to details, Mr. Wilson.”

“That’s your reason for killing me? Because I’m a lousy student? You’ll get the needle for this.”

Someone hissed, “Shut up and keep still.”

Finally one of my supposed friends speaks up.

I focused on the professor’s voice. He spoke in a somber tone. “Don’t move a muscle. Be quiet and look down. Very slowly.”

I scanned the cave floor. The toes of my right foot were almost touching something that looked like a corroded metallic disc, barely visible under its coating of dirt. “I see it.”

“Now look up.”

My knees trembled. What has he done? Is he really going to kill me? Kill us?

Suspended from the roof of the cave was a series of spikes, poised to impale anyone who activated what I now realized was an ancient trip mechanism at my feet.

The Professor’s voice wavered. “If you had taken one more step, you’d be dead. Just like Mr. Turgeon, who obviously didn’t detect this trap. Did you really think I’d murder him and then lead the class to his body? Unlike you, he was one of my best students.”

I felt a warm trickle wend its way down one leg. I covered the wet spot in my pants with both hands and decided to give up archaeology for something safer.

Like skydiving.

—

You’ll find more short fiction like this in Suppose: Drabbles, Flash Fiction, and Short Stories.

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