The Tenth Hole Bridge
by Andy Wilkinson
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Copyright 2011 by Andy Wilkinson
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The Tenth Hole Bridge
“Psssst!”
Bobby Lambert froze at the top of his backswing. He dropped the club head to the ground, knocking his ball off the tee. He turned toward the old wooden bridge, leading from the ninth green to the tenth tee box. The “psssst” sound came from that direction, but there was nobody on the bridge. A human had to have made that sound but he was the only person left on the golf course. All other players had gone to the clubhouse.
“Must be hearing things,” he mumbled.
He looked at his watch: one hour until sundown . . . better get going. The front nine had sucked, and he would be lucky to break a hundred, so he might as well hurry up and end the torture. When the golfing gods were angry, nothing could appease them. Just take your lumps and try another day.
He returned his Titleist to the tee, addressed the ball, and prepared to swing. He started his backswing, nice and smooth, good form—
“PSSST!”
This time the club left his hands in mid-backswing, flew up into a tree, and stuck for a second before falling to the ground.
“Pssst, Bobby, over here.” The voice came from the direction of the old bridge.
He jerked his head around to see a man emerging from under the bridge, a tiny little man, maybe four feet tall. He was pale and gaunt, and had on a suit that looked like something from the eighteenth century.
“You look a bit peaked there, fella,” said the little man, as he began walking up the hill to the tee box. “I hope I didn't startle you.”