Chris Grabenstein - The Crossroads

“Like a farmer boy who’s cleared him a field or two in his day, hunh?”

“That’s right. We need you, Davy.”

“Zack, you’re right. We’ll do her tonight!”

“What?”

“You and me, pardner. We’ll soak in the kerosene tonight!”

“Really?”

“Yep! Here’s how we’ll swing her. We’ll tell your stepmom we’re camping out up in the tree fort. She’ll go for that, right?”

“I guess.”

“Sure she will. Shucks, she’ll probably even cook us a late-night snack!”

“No way.”

“How come?”

“Judy doesn’t cook. She’s from New York City.”

“Here you go, boys.” Judy put two Burger King sacks into the mop bucket. “Whoppers, fries, and chocolate shakes. And some Milk-Bones for Zipper. You can let him have some of your burgers, but no onions, okay? It’ll make him gassy.”

“Thanks!” Zack hoisted the snack up to the tree house. Zipper pranced on his hind legs. Zack unwrapped a burger and placed it on the floor, back where Judy couldn’t see Zipper having a feast, onions and all.

“Of course, Zipper’s sleeping with you guys tonight,” Judy said, “so what do I care if he, you know, gets gassy ?

Real gassy.”

Zack realized “gassy” was a grown-up word for “fart.” He tried to pull the Whopper away, but Zipper’s front paws had already trapped the wrapper.

“Do you have your lantern, Zack?”

“Yep.”

Judy saw the big gas cans sitting on the ground under the tree house.

“Do you need that much kerosene for one lantern?”

“We might,” Zack said. “Especially at night. In the dark and all.”

“You never rightly know,” Davy added. “Best to be prepared.”

“Okay. But don’t stay up too late, promise?”

“Promise,” said Zack.

“Have fun, boys.”

“We will, Mrs. J.!”

Judy noticed the shadowy tarp draped over the stump. It was propped up to a pup-tent peak by the plastic statue’s head.

“What’s with the tarp?”

“Well, Mrs. J., I heard what that galdern old lady said to you.”

“You did?”

“Hard not to, what with her hollerin’ and all. I heard every nasty word that old witch had to say.”

“Now, Davy…”

“Ma’am, if you ask me, folks shouldn’t ought to say things like that. Dwellin’ on the sad parts of life when you ought to be livin’ each day and bein’ happy. So, if you don’t mind, we’d rather not have to look at her galdern stump and statue all week long.”

Judy smiled. “Good night, guys.”

“Oh, Mrs. J.? Can Zack sleep over at my place tomorrow night? I asked Pops and he says it’s okay by him if it’s okay by you.”

“Well, we’ll see. Let me check with Zack’s father when he calls tomorrow. Good night, boys.”

When Zack was certain Judy was gone, he turned to Davy.

“I get to sleep over at your place tomorrow? Neat!”

“Well, that’s the little white lie we’ll be telling your stepmom. Meanwhile, I’ll tell Pops I’m sleeping over here.”

“Is this another part of the plan?”

“Yep. Just because I ain’t been doin’ any drillin’, don’t mean I ain’t been doin’ any thinkin’.”

“Cool! Want a burger?”

“No, thanks. I ate at home.”

Zack munched a few salty fries. Zipper padded over, hoping for seconds.

“You sure you don’t want a burger?”

“Positive. Let Zipper have at it.”

“He’ll fart.”

“I reckon he might. Just don’t light a match nowheres near his butt if he does.”

“Yeah, he might make the kerosene explode!”

“Dang right! And we don’t want that to happen—not till tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yep. Why do you think we’re planning us that sleepover date?”

Judy had hired a babysitter, Nicole Murray, a teenager recommended by Mrs. Emerson.

“Keep an eye on the boys, but try not to let them see you. I don’t want them to think I think they’re babies who need a sitter.”

“I’ll stay inside unless I hear something.”

“Great. And help yourself to anything in the fridge.”

“Okay. What if I need to reach you?”

Judy handed Nicole a slip of paper. “Call my cell.”

“Cool. So where you going?”

“The graveyard.”

“Really? At night?”

“Yeah.”

“Awesome.”

It was ten p.m. when Judy pulled out of the Rocky Hill Farms subdivision and merged onto Highway 31.

When she reached the crossroads, she turned left.

She headed west for a couple hundred yards, then eased onto the soft shoulder in front of the graveyard, stopping in the same spot where she and Bud had fixed that flat tire

Judy knew from reading the old newspapers that this was the Haddam Hill Cemetery and that Bud Heckman was buried here. None of the others who died that night were laid to rest in North Chester, but their spirits roamed around near the crossroads because that was where they had died. It didn’t really matter that some, like the Rowdy Army Men, were buried as far away as Indiana or Tennessee. Their ghosts still haunted Connecticut.

Judy switched on her emergency flashers. She didn’t have a flat tire but thought if she pretended to be in automotive distress, Bud might show up again like he had that first time.

Judy’s eyes quickly adapted to the darkness. She looked up the hill. Weeds and tall grass grew between weathered headstones. A spiked fence penned in the rectangular plot. Angels with frozen stone wings topped a few monuments.

A car came up the road. Its headlights made Judy squint. When the lights passed, she could see that it was a truck, not a car. Some kind of pickup. It didn’t stop. Judy was relieved.

She looked up at the graveyard.

Still nothing. No Bud. No army soldiers stumbling around the headstones. No bony skeleton hands poking up through crumbling topsoil like they always did in the movies.

Judy stepped out of her car and onto the gritty shoulder of the highway. The night was warm, the moon full. Crickets screeched their noisy lullaby. She walked into the field, felt long strands of straw whip against her jeans.

She looked up the hill and saw the shadowy outline of a tall man.

Behind the fence.

He moved quickly and carried some sort of satchel: a small suitcase like you might take with you on a Greyhound bus trip from Boston to New York!

The man slipped out of view when he crossed behind a shed-shaped mausoleum.

Judy moved faster, crouched lower. She made her way to the fence and heard voices. Giggling. The man and now a woman. Not in the graveyard. Beyond it. Near the fence on the far side. Judy crept past the corner post and saw two silhouettes sitting on the ground, pointing up at the stars.

“Hello?” Judy called out. “Is anybody there?”

A woman’s voice answered: “Judy?”

Oh, no—one of the ghosts knows my name!

“Is that you, dear?”

A battery-powered lantern snapped on. Judy saw Mrs. Emerson sitting with a thin man in his sixties. They were eating sandwiches wrapped in wax paper.

“Mrs. Emerson?”

“Hello, dear. Care for a deviled egg?”

“No, thanks….”

It was a picnic basket, not a suitcase.

“We came out,” Mrs. Emerson said, “to see if there were any souls doomed for a certain term to walk the night.”