Chris Grabenstein - The Crossroads

“I see. Okay. Let’s go back inside and see if they have a lantern.”

“How about one of those fuel cans?”

“Good idea.” His father smiled. “You know, I had a kerosene lantern when I was your age.”

“Really?”

“Yep. And you’re right. It does look more like what a pirate would have.”

An hour later, they returned home with the building supplies, a lantern, and a red plastic canister filled with two and a half gallons of kerosene.

Now Zack and Davy had everything they needed.

Judy decided to just ask.

“So tell me, Mrs. Emerson, do you believe in ghosts?”

The librarian didn’t miss a beat. “Of course I do, dear. Then again, I have a slight advantage over you. I’ve actually seen a few. Six to be precise.”

“Ghosts?”

“Yes, dear. We were discussing ghosts, weren’t we?”

“Yes, but—”

“Oh, they’re nothing to be afraid of. Just one more piece of information to process. A new realm to explore.”

“You’re saying you’ve actually seen a ghost?”

“No, dear. I said I actually saw six. It was forty years ago. Late May. Early June. Mr. Emerson and I weren’t married. Just dating. I was nineteen. He was twenty-one, had a car. One Saturday night, he took me for a drive down this back country road so we could watch the submarine races.”

“The what?”

“We went there to neck, dear. To make out? We parked near a cornfield not far from the crossroads. We saw nothing but moonlight and fireflies until the Rowdy Army Men appeared.”

The Rowdy Army Men. Grandpa’s favorite ghost story.

“Six drunken soldiers stumbled out of the forest like a small herd of deer. They weaved their way into the darkened field, waved their weapons, and swigged hooch from brown paper sacks. One soldier eventually spied us watching and, as quickly as they came, the six men disappeared. They vanished into a foggy mist.”

“I’ve heard about these army men,” Judy said.

“Yes. They’re quite the local legend. Children dress up as Rowdy Army Men on Halloween. Well, not the little children. The teenagers. The ones who find it funny that six drunken soldiers home on leave shot each other and died in a Connecticut cornfield instead of on a Korean battlefield.”

“Is that how the story goes?”

“Yes, dear. Although I don’t believe it to be true.”

“You don’t?”

“Of course not. However, I do believe the six men did, indeed, die together, which is why they must spend eternity together.”

“Scaring teenagers in lovers’ lane?”

“It’s not really a lane. More like a dirt road. Since that night, I have made quite a study of paranormal phenomena. At first I assumed that the field was a portal. A door for spirits to pass through as they journey from their world into ours.”

“Okay.”

“Then I wondered: Was it a residual haunting? That’s the most common kind.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. The residual theory suggests that a building or a piece of earth holds the psychic impression a person made when they were alive.”

“I see.”

“But then again, this could be a traditional haunting. The soldiers didn’t pass over at the time of their death because some sort of unfinished business held them back.”

“Wait a minute,” Judy said.

“Yes?”

“You said that these six soldiers shot each other?”

“No. I didn’t say that. That’s simply what the local legend would have us believe.”

“Okay. But in order for that legend to be true, two of those army men had to fire and get shot at the same instant. The last two men had to kill each other.”

Mrs. Emerson smiled. “Exactly. I like the way you think because it’s precisely what I thought! It’s also why I never went along with the conventional wisdom. Those soldiers didn’t shoot each other.”

“No?”

“No, dear. You see, I am old enough to remember this Greyhound bus accident in the crossroads.” Mrs. Emerson tapped the newspaper. The passenger manifest. “Take a closer look, dear. The answer is right there. Read the list of names.”

Judy did.

Mrs. Emerson smiled. “Pay particular attention to passengers one, eleven, twelve, twenty-six, thirty-eight, and thirty-nine.”

Judy read the names: “‘Private First Class Sylvester Barrows, Corporal Simon Gorham, Private First Class Alfred Grabowski, Private First Class Amos Morgan, Sergeant Abraham Yates, Private First Class Adam Zahn.’ They’re all U.S. Army soldiers.”

Mrs. Emerson nodded. “Six soldiers. Six ghosts. The Rowdy Army Men were all passengers on the same bus. They died together; they now spend eternity together.”

“Well, then,” said Judy, “I guess your ghosts know my ghost. Mr. Bud Heckman. He was their driver!”

Billy O’Claire sat in his trailer, staring at the blade of a butter knife.

Someone had carved a message into the stainless steel.

Unfinishd biznis.

Billy knew he had probably scratched the words into the knife himself. Probably used a paper clip. Maybe a chunk of gravel from out in the yard.

But if his hands were responsible for etching the words, he wasn’t the one choosing them. It was the other guy, his newly discovered grandfather.

It was early Monday morning. Billy’s head throbbed and his teeth felt slimy. He hadn’t showered or shaved for a couple of days. He was a stinky, stubbly-faced wreck. But he was alone.

Alone!

Clint Eberhart, the evil spirit, wasn’t with him! Wasn’t inside him!

Billy had to think.

Who else does Eberhart want dead?

He already gave Mee Maw a heart attack. Now he wants to hunt down this Jennings family. But what about the rest of the O’Claire clan? What about me?

And Aidan!

Oh, no. What about Aidan? What if he wants to kill my son?

Billy raced over to Spratling Manor.

He saw his ex-wife’s car parked out front in the same circular driveway where his parents—Tommy and Alice—had been shot twenty-five years earlier.

Billy hated this place, but he had to do this, had to do what was right. He had to protect his son.

An antique Cadillac crawled out from behind a vine-covered brick wall. Billy climbed down from his pickup truck and hurried across the weedy driveway to confront the chauffeur.

“Excuse me? Sir?”

The sleepy-eyed old man tilted his head slightly.

“I’m looking for Sharon.”

“What?”

“Does Sharon still work here?”

“Who?” The chauffeur looked confused.

“Sharon!” he shouted at the old man.

“Billy?”

Sharon was on the front porch. She was dressed in a puke green nurse’s smock.

Billy ran over to her, but she gave him the palm of her hand.

“Hold on, Billy.”

He froze.

“How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t ever want to see you again!”

“I know. But you’ve got to listen to me. Just this one last time.”

“Billy,” Sharon said impatiently, “it’s Monday and we need to take Miss Spratling into town and then out to her memorial. If you have something to say, you better say it fast!”

“Don’t ever let me near my son.” He said it as quickly as he could. “Don’teverletmenearmyson!” He repeated it even faster.

“I don’t get this, Billy. Ever since the divorce, you’ve been pestering me: ‘Let me see Aidan.’ Now you’re telling me to keep you away?”