Brian Keene - Ghost Walk

“Hey,” he answered. “What’s up?”

“The police were here.”

“W-what? Why? What’s wrong?”

“It’s Rhonda and Sam. The kids from the high school? Turns out they never went home last night. Their parents called it in. Last time anybody saw them was here, at the Ghost Walk.”

“Yeah,” Ken agreed. “I saw Rhonda yesterday evening, before Maria and Rudy showed up.”

“I told the cops that. They want to talk to you about it when you get a chance.”

Ken twitched. “Why? They…they don’t think I had something to do with it, do they?”

The clerk looked up from the register. Ken turned his back on him.

“No,” Terry said. “At least, I don’t think so. They found Sam’s car in Lancaster this morning, parked at a supermarket in Columbia. That’s all they’d tell me. Don’t know if they ran off together, or had a fight, or what. I wouldn’t worry about the cops thinking we’re involved. You know how kids are. Remember the shit we used to get up to?”

“Yeah.”

“The cop left a business card for you and wrote his cell phone number down on the back. I told him you’d be out running around most of the day but would get back to him as soon as you could. I also gave him two free passes. Hope that’s okay? He seemed really into the Ghost Walk.”

“Sure,” Ken said. “That’s fine. I’m finishing up at the costume shop right now. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Sounds good,” Terry said. “I just figured you’d want to know right away.”

“You did the right thing. Are the others saying anything?”

“The cop talked to Cecil, Tom, Russ and Tina. Jorge ain’t back yet with the lime. I walked out here to the field so I could call. You know how bad cell coverage is in the woods.”

“Okay. Hold down the fort. I’ll be there soon. And Terry?”

“Yeah?”

“Let Cecil and the others know that I’d appreciate it if they didn’t go blabbing about this. We don’t need that kind of publicity, and it’s not going to help the cops find them.”

“Agreed.”

Finished, Ken disconnected the call and stuffed the cell phone back in his pocket. Then he turned back to the clerk, who was holding out the store copy of his receipt and a pen for him to sign it with.

“Everything okay?” the clerk asked.

Ken nodded. “Fine. Just one of those days, you know?”

“Tell me about it. Seems like I’m having one of those lives.”

Ken signed the receipt. “Ever get the feeling something bad is coming? You don’t know what, but you can feel it—looming like a thunderstorm?”

The clerk stared at him. “No, can’t say that I ever have.”

“Oh.” Ken shrugged. “Must be me, then.”

“I’ll give you a hand loading up,” the clerk offered. “And then you can be on your way. Bet you’re excited! Tomorrow’s the big day.”

“Thanks,” Ken said. Then he muttered under his breath, “It’s just getting more exciting all the time.”

“Time to piss,” Cecil Smeltzer announced.

“Thanks for sharing,” Tom McNally said. “Want me to hold it for you?”

“No need. This ain’t no union job and we don’t work for the state road crew. Doesn’t take two men to hold my pecker. It still stands up every time. Unlike you younger guys with your Viagra.”

“You get a hard-on when you piss? Maybe you’d better see a doctor about that.”

“No, sir.” Cecil frowned. “I don’t guess I will. You get to be my age, any visit to the doctor involves him putting his finger in your ass.”

The sound of their laughter filled the forest.

“I’m gonna go back to the field,” Tom said. “Check in with Terry. See how he made out with that cop. You want anything from the cooler?”

Cecil shook his head. “No, I’m good. I drink anything else, I’ll just have to piss again.”

As Tom strode away, he called over his shoulder, “Careful you don’t cut your dick off with that machete while you’re pissing!”

“Young people,” Cecil muttered. “No respect for age or beauty.”

After Tom was gone, Cecil drove the blade of his machete deep into a rotting tree stump. Splinters of dry wood fell to the ground around the stump’s base. When he let go of the handle, the machete was still vibrating from the force he’d put behind the blow. He grinned, flashing his dentures and feeling happy. At his age, he was lucky if he could lift the machete most days, let alone swing it hard.

Volunteering for this Ghost Walk had been good for him, more than he’d even at first suspected. Initially, Cecil had gotten involved because he liked Ken Ripple and appreciated what the younger man was doing to honor his wife’s memory. Ken and Deena had gone to Cecil’s church for a while. Good people. Deena had one of those smiles that made people feel better, no matter what kind of day they were having. Ken had stopped coming to services after Deena’s death. Cecil couldn’t blame him much. Cecil’s wife, Gladys, had been gone two years now, struck down in the night by a blood clot. But if she hadn’t been such a bitch to him for the last thirty years of their lives together, then maybe Cecil would be pissed at God, too. Instead, he was secretly grateful.

Maybe it was the fresh air or just the fact that he’d been more active these past two months than he’d been for the last five years, but Cecil felt better. Healthier. He felt strong again, like he had in his forties and fifties. The exercise was definitely helping. He’d swung that machete all morning long, stopping only to drink coffee and talk to the police officer, but his back and shoulder muscles barely ached.

“Yes, sir,” he whispered. “Maybe I’ll head on down to the Lutheran Home’s Senior Center tonight and see if I can’t meet a lady. Play a few hands of strip cribbage.”

He left the trail, pushing through the undergrowth. Although Tom and Terry were up in the field, Russ and Tina Farnsworth were around somewhere, putting up cornstalk walls along parts of the trail. Wouldn’t do for Tina to come strolling down the path and find Cecil with his penis hanging out of his pants. She might get one glimpse of it and leave Russ for him.

He stopped after he’d gone about fifty yards. He glanced behind him. The brush was dense enough that he couldn’t see the trail, which meant that nobody could see him either. Satisfied, Cecil unzipped his pants and freed his penis. Rather than the usual pathetic trickle, his stream was strong.

A twig snapped somewhere behind him.

Cecil turned his head, but couldn’t see anything. He focused his attention on the business at hand again, amazed by his renewed vigor.

“Yep,” he breathed. “Hard work does a body good.”

Then he thought of his brother, Clark—a reminder that honest labor didn’t always have the same positive results.

Cecil tried not to dwell on Clark. For years, he’d refused to speak or think about him at all. He’d put all of his brother’s pictures in a shoe box and hid them in the attic, beneath Gladys’s cross-stitch collection and a pile of old record albums. He’d tried to contact his nephew, Barry, a few times over the years, but the boy had turned out just like his father, and Cecil had given up. Talking to Barry just made him think of Clark. Thinking of Clark caused pain, so the easiest way to deal with it was to pretend his brother had never existed.

But, Cecil was learning, these days it wasn’t so easy to ignore the past. Maybe it was because he was lonely, or that he had so much free time on his hands since he’d retired, but lately, he thought of Clark more and more. The pain was just as strong now as it had been back then, like an old scar that had been reopened and was bleeding out fresh again.