Andrew Klavan - The long way home

"See that stick?" I said. "It's broken. Like someone stepped on it." I moved my beam around the stick. I couldn't be sure, but it seemed to me there were other disturbances, discolorations in the leaves where they had been overturned, their damp undersides facing upward.

"Broken stick," said Rick softly. "Doesn't have to mean anything…"

"I know," I said. "But look at the leaves too. It looks like someone was walking there."

I'll never be sure where I found the courage, but all at once I was walking forward again, moving away from Rick and Josh. The mourning woman was right above me now, staring down at me as I moved alongside her- and then past her. I went to the broken stick. I bent down and picked it up. I straightened, holding the stick in one hand and the flashlight in the other. Turning the stick this way and that, examining it under the light.

And as I did, I felt a hand snake up from the earth and wrap its cold fingers around my ankle.

I'm embarrassed now when I remember the shriek I let out. And I shrieked again as I tore my ankle free and stared down to see a white, featureless face gleaming up at me from the ground.

In a single, swift movement, the uncanny figure leapt to its feet in front of me, its hands lifted in the air, its fingers curled like claws.

And it shouted, "Boo!"

Because it was Miler, of course. Who else could it have been?

The Return Josh, Rick, and I did not beat Miler to death and bury his mangled body in a shallow grave with a headstone warning future would-be practical jokers that this could be their fate. We wanted to, believe me. And he deserved it, that's for sure. I can't even remember now why we decided to let him live. He'd brought some brownies his mother had made-maybe that was it. Or maybe it was because he also brought an extra PSP with a battery pack that would last till dawn and keep us from having to go to sleep again. That was important, too, because at the time, there didn't seem to be any chance we'd be able to sleep again-ever- so a little gaming seemed like it might be a good way to pass the time.

Anyway, for whatever reason, we let Miler live and he took off the plastic mask he'd used to hide his features and joined us in the house and told us all about how he didn't really have a track meet to train for but had just come up with this awesome idea for a practical joke that was sure to scare the daylights out of us. Which, after the terror had passed, we were forced to admit had worked pretty well and had, in retrospect, been incredibly terrifying while being kind of hilarious at the same time. And yes, I was also forced to admit that I had screamed like a girl when Miler grabbed my ankle and that that had also been more or less hilarious. In fact, as I recall, I was forced to admit this several times before I finally punched Josh in the arm to get him to shut up about it.

Mostly, we spent the rest of the night laughing until we couldn't breathe and then breathing enough so we could start laughing again. On top of which, the story of Miler's prank made for such a good report that Mr. Sherman was, in fact, forced to give us the As we were looking for. And that, in turn, got my parental sentence reduced from two weeks grounded to one Saturday cleaning out the garage.

That hadn't been that long ago. A year and a half or so- not that long in the scheme of things. But it seemed to me like another life.

Now, I had come back to the old McKenzie place. I didn't have much choice. I had to try to clear my name. I couldn't let the police find me, and I couldn't let my friends get involved and put themselves in danger. The Ghost Mansion was the only place I could think of where I could hide long enough to get the job done. No one ever came here. No one even passed by. No one would have any reason to suspect that they would find me here.

The iron gate that blocked the way in was held shut by a chain, but the chain was wrapped only loosely through the bars. When I pushed against the gate, the chain slid off and dangled between the bars. I opened the gate wide enough for me to squeeze through.

I started up the last stretch of the path to the Ghost Mansion.

It was dark and cold as dawn approached. The half- moon that had shone through the church window earlier that night was low to the horizon now, sinking out of sight behind the faraway trees. The last dark of night seemed to gather around me. I had a small keychain flashlight in my pocket. I took it out and pressed its button occasionally to send a thin white beam down at the path. It wasn't much light, but it was enough to keep me headed in the right direction.

By now, the broken macadam of the road was all but gone. There was nothing left but dirt and stones. They crunched under my sneakers as the path dipped down into a small valley and then rose again.

I climbed up over the crest of the little hill and finally saw the house.

It hadn't changed any. It still loomed large and tumbledown and gloomy on the top of the rise. It still stared out at the darkness through its broken windows as if waiting for victims to approach. The predawn wind still moved over the surrounding fields, still stirred the trees and the unmown grass so that the place almost seemed a living presence, restless and murmuring. It was all just as I remembered it.

But if the house hadn't changed, I had. I'd changed a lot. The last time I'd come here, I was pretty much just a kid, getting into a little harmless mischief. I was afraid of ghosts then. The noise of mice in the walls made me jump and shiver. A staring statue in a graveyard sent a chill up my spine.

I was older now-a young man, I'd guess you'd call me. Even though I'd lost a year of growing up-even though I couldn't remember it-I had grown up all the same. I was still afraid-I was afraid all the time-but the things that frightened me were different. They were real. Not ghosts, but people-bad people-who didn't believe we should have the freedom to think and say whatever we wanted and live the way we thought was right. They hated America because we had those freedoms. They wanted to hurt our country and they wanted to hurt me. I was afraid of them-the bad guys-and I was afraid of the good guys, the police. The police who wanted to put me in prison for the next twenty-five years. I was afraid they would catch me before I could find out the truth.

So as I walked up the hill toward the Ghost Mansion, my feelings were weird-mixed, I guess would be the best way to describe them. I looked up at that great hulk of a house sitting against the deep blue sky and among the silhouetted trees-I looked up at it and I felt it looking back down at me-and yeah, I have to admit I still felt that old chill, that same chill I'd felt the last time I was here, as if something supernatural, something bizarre and frightening, might be waiting for me behind those black, staring windows.

I felt that-but mostly, I felt something else. I felt sad. I missed those old days, those days I'd last been here. I missed being a kid. I missed being afraid of dumb things that couldn't really hurt me. I missed laughing until I couldn't breathe and then breathing and laughing some more.

I guess the point is that more than anything, I missed my friends. I missed Rick and Miler and Josh. I missed having someone to kid around with and talk to. I missed long conversations about girls and sports and arguments about whether Medal of Honor was cooler than Prince of Persia and why part 2 of any trilogy was never as good as parts 1 and 3. I missed being with the guys who knew me best and liked me just the way I was. I missed my friends.

But they were gone. I had to face that. Those days were gone and I was alone, as alone and empty as the McKenzie house.

The dark house rose over me as I approached. The autumn branches of the trees leaned down toward me, creaking and groaning as I stepped into the shadow of the doorway.