Chris Grabenstein - The Crossroads

“That’s Hamlet, right?” the man said.

“Actually, dear, it’s the ghost of Hamlet’s father.”

“I mean, it’s from Hamlet .”

“Yes, dear. Judy, allow me to introduce my husband, Henry Emerson.”

“Most folks call me Hank.”

“That doesn’t make it right, dear.”

“How long have you two been out here?” Judy asked.

“Since sundown,” Mrs. Emerson said.

Mr. Emerson winked. “She told me we were coming out to watch the submarine races.”

Judy smiled. “Seen anything interesting?”

The Emersons stood, brushed specks and flecks and burrs off their pants.

“Nothing,” Mrs. Emerson said.

“Too bad. Maybe tomorrow?”

“Indeed. After all, tomorrow will be the fiftieth anniversary of the bus accident. But tonight? Not a soul is stirring.”

Mr. Emerson winked again. “You might say it’s totally dead!”

Judy went home, paid the babysitter, checked on the boys and the dog asleep in the tree house, and then went upstairs to bed.

She had forgotten all about the pickup truck that had passed by the graveyard earlier. It was now parked very close to the crossroads.

Waiting.

Zipper started barking.

Zack woke up. Looked at his watch. It was three a.m.

“What is it, Zip?”

Zipper barked again. Zack struck a match and lit his lamp.

“Lose the lantern,” Davy ordered. “Somebody’s coming. Somebody bad.”

Zack twisted the knob to extinguish the flame.

“Put Zipper in the bucket.” Davy remained remarkably calm. “Lower him down.”

“All by himself?”

“We’re heading down, too. Don’t worry, pardner. Everything’s gonna be okay.” Davy said it with cocksure confidence. “You first. Down the ladder. I’ve got you covered.” Davy pulled out his slingshot. “Hurry, pal. He’s coming.”

Zack swung his feet around and found the ladder. He skipped a few boards on the way down and landed hard.

Davy was already on the ground and held a finger up to his lips. “Shhh.”

The boys could hear the ping ping of aluminum bouncing against aluminum. Davy used his right hand to gesture “to the left and down.”

The clanging came closer. So did the voice of a crazy man who sounded a lot like the scary street people Zack remembered from New York City, the ones who marched up and down the sidewalks screaming at themselves.

“Up the hill! No! Do it. I can’t! Chicken! Shut up! ”

Davy slipped silently under the trees without so much as snapping a twig.

Zipper started barking again.

Zack turned and, in a bright shaft of moonlight, saw the plumber guy who had been at the house earlier—only now he was dragging a ladder, its pulley rattling against the rungs. Ping ping. Ping ping.

The plumber stopped, saw the boys.

Zack saw the insane look in the guy’s eyes.

The knife dangling off his belt.

“This way!” Davy rambled down the slope toward the highway. Zack and Zipper ran after him.

Billy dropped the ladder and chased after the boys. He slipped on a wet patch of leaves, lost his legs, landed on his butt.

“Get up!” the spirit of Clint Eberhart insisted.

“No!”

“Come on, Billy boy—get up off the ground.”

“No! You can’t make me do this!”

“Kill the Jennings boy and we’re done. I promise!”

“Up there!” Davy cried as they ran up the highway.

“Where?” Zack was winded. If they had to run much farther, he knew he’d be lying in the middle of Route 13, wiggling and kicking like an upside-down bug.

Davy ran faster.

“Head for the graveyard, pardner!”

“What? Are you crazy?”

“Nope. But that feller chasin’ us sure is!”

Zack dared a glance over his shoulder. The plumber was less than a hundred yards away. Zack saw a knife blade flash in the moonlight. He ran faster.

“He’s afraid of graveyards!” Davy said when they reached the iron fence.

“Why?”

“Most bad eggs are.”

“Really?”

“You bet.”

“How come?”

“What’d’ya say we hop over the fence first and discuss it later?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Climb on over. Zipper can squeeze through the bars.”

Zack wished he were better in gym class, better at running or scaling walls or climbing ropes. There was no way he could pull himself over the fence.

“Let’s go around to the gate….”

“Ain’t got time.”

“I can’t do it.”

“Sure you can.”

“I’m no good at—”

“Hush. Use the crossbeams like a ladder!”

Davy pointed and Zack saw how he might be able to scramble over the wall.

“There you go. Easy does it. One foot at a time and alley-oop!”

Zack hauled himself up and over.

“Way to go!” Davy was waiting for him on the other side. Zipper had made it, too. “You should of seen ol’ Zip slipping through them bars!”

The plumber was still coming, still screaming.

“Follow me,” Davy said. He led Zack through the gravestones and into the deep shadow of a mammoth tomb topped with a concrete cross.

“We’ll be safe back here.”

“How come?”

“Sacred ground.”

“Hunh?”

“The crazy ones are always scared of sacred ground.”

Zack looked around. They were near the gate. It was wide open.

“The gate! It’s open!”

“Don’t worry, pardner. He can’t come in.”

Zack couldn’t see the maniac plumber anymore, couldn’t hear his screams or his threats. All he could do was hope that Davy was right about sacred ground and that the plumber knew the rules, too.

Billy stopped running when he reached the cemetery fence.

“I want to go home,” he groaned. “Now.”

“Shut up, you big baby!” he yelled at himself in the voice of Clint Eberhart.

“I need to go home,” said Billy. “I’m exhausted.”

“You’re like a broken record! I swear I ought to—”

“There will be no swearing, young man. This is sacred ground.”

Three nuns were standing behind the fence—three penguins in flowing black robes with winged white wimples on their heads.

“Nuns?” fumed Eberhart. “I hate nuns!”

“Hate can be very dangerous, Mr. Eberhart,” said the shortest nun. “Hate will doom you to hell for all eternity!”

“Hah! I ain’t never going to hell, Sister. I’m going to live forever!”

“No man lives forever.”

“Oh, yeah? Just watch me, doll!”

The oldest nun spoke even more serenely than the first.

“Mr. O’Claire? Mr. William O’Claire? Can you hear me? I know the demon spirit has taken control of your body, but I hope you are in there, too. Mr. O’Claire, my name is Sister Elizabeth Synnott.”

“Sin-snot? What kind of name is that? Do people call you Sister Boogers?”

“Billy?” said Sister Elizabeth. “Listen carefully. Your grandmother forgives you for what the evil spirit forced you to do.”

“What?” Billy heard the nun through the fog that always came whenever Eberhart took charge of his body.

“Mee Maw forgives you, Billy. She told me that you were a good boy. That you visited her in the nursing home and brought her oatmeal pies and—”