Chris Grabenstein - The Crossroads

“I dunno. What if the stump explodes or something?”

“Kerosene don’t explode. You’re thinkin’ gasoline.”

“You do it! Okay? Please?”

Davy shook his head. “Nope. It’s up to you. You’re the chosen one, Zack.”

“Me? Why?”

“Because this was too important to trust to anybody else. Light the match, Zack. It’s time.”

“What do I tell Judy when she—”

“We’ll worry about that later. Light ’er up!”

Zack’s hands were shaking so much he rattled the matchbox. He finally worked the lid open, pulled out a wooden Blue Tip, and scratched it along the strike pad. The match sparked but wouldn’t light.

“Try again,” urged Davy.

Zack snapped the match sharp and quick. The head flared to life and he flicked it at the stump. A small spot of blue flame erupted on the edge of a single clump of charcoal. Fire spread slowly at first, creeping across the briquettes, then— whump! The flames found the fuel-soaked wood.

“We’re in business!” said Davy.

“Yeah.” Zack brought his arm up to shield his face from the fire’s intense heat. “You think we poured in too much kerosene?”

“Nah. It’ll settle down.”

A bell rang in the distance.

“Oh, no! Is that your father?”

“Dang. I reckon he finally figured out that we didn’t follow him home. I’ll go deal with him. You stay here.”

“What?”

“See you later, Zack. And thank you. Thank you kindly.”

“For what?”

“Doin’ what needed to be done.” Davy ran down the hill to the highway.

“Wait!” Zack heard the fire roar behind him, heard a hiss when it boiled what little water remained inside the old lady’s flower bucket. The white cross’s knotty wood popped like corn in the microwave.

“Davy?”

The flames shot higher and filled the black sky with burning red stars.

“Davy!”

No one answered.

Davy was gone.

“Oh, my.”

The priest had never been inside the chapel before. It was a smallish room with four wooden pews facing a marble altar.

Gerda Spratling knelt in the front pew, dressed in a flowing white gown, her head covered by a bridal veil. A rack of fifty ruby votive candles flickered in front of her. But what amazed the priest most were the other statues.

Dozens of them. Maybe a hundred. Some were tiny. Others towered to six feet. They were everywhere. Standing on pedestals. Tucked into alcoves. All were carved to look like a handsome young man with slicked-back hair and bright blue eyes.

“Oh, my,” the priest mumbled again. He thought this must be Miss Spratling’s private shrine to the young Elvis Presley.

“That’s my Clint,” Gerda said, standing up from her cushioned kneeler. “The soul for whom we pray this night.”

Father Murphy reached for his handkerchief, dabbed at his damp brow.

“Clint was my fiancé,” Miss Spratling said. “I remain his eternal bride!”

The priest sponged more sweat. “How lovely.”

“Sharon?” Miss Spratling called out. “Get on your knees. Clint needs your prayers, too. Tonight he needs all our prayers!”

Judy raced up Main Street.

She passed the town clock tower, still stuck at 9:52.

Ten minutes before ten, give or take a minute or two.

That was what Davy Wilcox had told Grandpa he’d seen. Back when he was a boy. Back when he was still alive.

Judy checked the dashboard clock.

10:10 p.m.

She couldn’t believe what a terrible stepmother she was: She had sent Zack on a sleepover date with dead people.

The burning stump exploded into a shower of sparks, which landed like a cannon blast on the plywood deck of the boys’ pirate ship.

The tree fort crackled with fire.

Zipper barked.

“You’re right. We need Davy.” Zack wove his way through the trees, down the slope to the highway. Zipper ran after him.

“There he is. See? In the cornfield.” The fire was now so bright it cast long, jagged shards of light all the way across the highway. “Davy?”

Zack’s best friend was fifty—maybe a hundred—yards away, but Zack could see him.

“Davy? You gotta come back! The fire’s out of control!”

In the distance, Davy turned slowly.

“Hurry! It’s burning down the tree fort!”

Davy waved.

And then he disappeared. He didn’t walk into the wall of cornstalks or hide behind a tree—he disappeared !

Zack stood frozen in shock.

He had never battled an out-of-control fire before.

He had never seen his best friend vanish into thin air, either.

In the middle of the prayers, Miss Spratling sprang up.

“Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” the priest asked.

“That horrible screaming!”

The priest looked insulted. “I was singing a hymn, Miss Spratling.”

Miss Spratling ignored him and hurried from the chapel—desperate to silence the screaming no one else could even hear.

Davy was gone and the whole forest was about to burn down unless Zack did something fast.

He could run up to the house and roll out the garden hose. He could go into the garage and turn on the lawn sprinklers. He could run inside and grab a fire extinguisher.

Before he could decide what to do or where to run, the wind whipped up and sent another shower of sparks spewing out of the stump like an angry volcano. Now there were twenty small fires licking up the sides of trees, wilting the underbrush, heading for the house!

Some sparks landed close to the propane grill and a river of fire snaked its way toward the ten-gallon gas tank hanging off the side.

“Run, Zipper!” Zack screamed. “It’s gonna explode!” He quickly scooped up his dog and dashed down the hill to the highway. When he reached the road, he kept running and headed for the graveyard. He had been safe there once before. He’d go there again and hide.

Hide from Dad and Judy and the firemen and—

The propane tank exploded.

Behind him, Zack heard metal ripping through the trees.

In a flash, the fire leapt out of the forest and shot across the backyard and started gorging itself on the house.

Zack cowered behind a headstone. The sky over his house was glowing a bright orange. Explosions shook the ground. The fire had found the gasoline-powered lawn equipment in the garage.

Zack Jennings had never been in bigger trouble. He had burned down his father’s house. He might burn down the whole neighborhood.

He saw Judy’s car driving down Route 13. She was on her way home.

And she used to like me. I think she really did.

Zack was ready to run away from home forever; he just didn’t know where to go or which way to run.

“Finish the job,” hissed a voice behind him.

It was the skinny preacher. The scary Bible campers were lined up behind him, but this time, they all looked pale and Zack could see blue veins rippling across their faces.