Chris Grabenstein - The Crossroads

“Aidan? He’s not here. Mr. Willoughby picked him up hours ago.”

“What?”

“He said Miss Spratling had given permission for Aidan to sleep up at the manor house tonight.”

Zack had no idea where he was.

The room was dark and smelled wet—like a basement when it rained.

The old lady, assisted by the even older driver, had tied his hands behind his back with duct tape. Then the old man had looped a heavy bicycle chain through his arms and locked him to some sort of metal pole. The floor he was sitting on was cold and hard.

And the baby was crying.

“Don’t worry, little guy,” Zack whispered. “We’re going to be okay. I promise.”

The baby gurgled. Zack could see a half-empty bottle jammed into the padding of his portable car seat. The baby started kicking. Ready to scream again.

“Hey, have you ever seen the town clock?”

The baby cooed.

“Did you know there used to be monkeys and squirrels inside that clock tower?”

The baby arched his eyebrows.

“Yeah. They’d climb up the gear teeth to get to the nuts up top.”

Zack made a funny face and wiggled his cheeks like he was washing walnuts. The baby giggled. He probably didn’t understand a word Zack was saying, but he seemed to like the silly faces.

“Stop that!”

The old lady and her driver were back. She stormed into the room, bent over the baby.

The baby started bawling.

“Go ahead. Scream, child. Scream! It’s good for the lungs. Helps them grow big and strong.” Miss Spratling turned to Zack. “Clint will be back soon to finish his unfinished business with you. He’d be here now, but you weakened him. Oh, yes, you did. Your little campfire? That sapped his strength. But he’ll be back. Tonight, dearie.”

“Miss Spratling?” The old man tottered forward. “The police will be coming back, as well.”

“Who cares? They’ll never find you, boy. Never, ever, never. Clint’s going to slice you up into tiny little pieces and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men won’t be able to put you back together again!”

Zack knew he was in huge trouble: The old lady was insane, nuttier than Grandpa’s clock tower!

“My beau, Clint, is quite angry at you, Mr. Jennings. Your petty pyrotechnic display has presented us with quite a problem. Before what’s left of his tree withers and dies, his soul must take up residence in another vessel.”

The old lady bent down to tell Zack her secret. “But guess what?” Her breath was hot and foul, her eyes wide. “Clint can live again! We don’t need the oak tree! All his soul needs to do is crawl inside a body that carries his royal blood!”

The old lady leaned even closer. “His grandson? The plumber? That boy was handsome, but a weakling. He couldn’t handle Clint’s surging energy.” Miss Spratling gazed at the baby. “But this son of his grandson? Why, Clint will slide inside this child with the greatest of ease! He will live again! He will grow up and marry me!”

“Miss Spratling?” The chauffeur tried again. “The police?”

“Yes, yes.” Miss Spratling stroked Zack’s chin. “Do you know why Clint’s soul was allowed to linger so long on earth, dear boy? Because I built that memorial and prayed for him. Yes, I did. Every day for fifty years! Now, tell me, child: When you’re dead and gone, who will pray to save your immortal soul? Will anybody even miss you? Will anybody care?”

Zack pulled back, banged his head against the pole.

“No. I think not. You burned down their house. They won’t miss you at all!”

She cackled and the two old people shuffled out the door.

But Zack knew they’d be coming back.

And they’d be bringing the ghost from the tree.

Time crept slowly.

The baby fell asleep. Zack was alone with his thoughts and they were darker than the starless sky outside the big windows.

Will anybody care?

He had to think about it.

When Zack died, his father might be sad for a little while. Then he’d get busy like he always did. He’d pull himself together, focus on work, and “move on with his life”—just like he had when Zack’s mother died.

Maybe he and Judy would have some kids of their own. Not right away. But in a year, maybe two. They’d have a son who didn’t remind them so much of a dead wife.

His friends? Zack didn’t have any. Just Davy, and he probably wasn’t even real. What was he? A figment of Zack’s overactive imagination? No. Judy saw him, too. The way Davy disappeared in the cornfield tonight, it was just like how the shadow man had appeared, the guy the old lady called Clint.

The guy who was a ghost.

Was Davy a ghost? Probably. The preacher and the Bible camp kids in their old-fashioned clothes? Probably ghosts, too. Just like the Rowdy Army Men. Now that he thought about it, he realized that there sure seemed to be a lot of ghosts hanging around near the crossroads. Maybe Zack could join them. Maybe he could become the newest ghost kid haunting the highway.

Will anybody miss me?

Zipper? Did dogs miss people? Maybe. But only until somebody else filled their food bowl on a regular basis or slipped them a Whopper.

What about Judy?

Okay. Judy is different. Not just because she wore a purple wedding dress and is funny and likes to make up stories the same way I like to.

If I die, she might miss me.

She might really miss me!

“Back so soon?”

Gerda Spratling met the search party in the front hall. Ben Hargrove shoved the warrant under her nose.

“Mary Beth?” he said to the female officer restraining Zipper.

“I’m on it.” The officer unclipped the dog’s collar and let him loose.

“If that dog does his business on my rug…”

“Your house will smell a whole lot better.” Judy couldn’t resist.

Zipper raced up and down the hallways, darted in and out of rooms. The police officer followed.

“Got anything, boy?”

Zipper barked, as if to say “No. Nothing.”

“We’ll find him, Zip.” She offered the dog some water from a kidney-shaped bottle she kept strapped to the back of her utility belt.

Zipper didn’t drink any. He was too busy.

He needed to find his boy.

“My son is missing, too!” Sharon cornered Hargrove and Judy in the portrait gallery. “Miss Spratling sent her chauffeur down to the carriage house to steal him!”

“Where’s this chauffeur now?” Hargrove asked.

“I don’t know!” Sharon’s voice was shaky.

Hargrove spoke into his walkie-talkie. “Betty?”

“Go ahead,” a voice crackled back.

“We need to issue an APB for…” He turned to Sharon.

“Willoughby!” she screamed. “Rodman Willoughby!”

It was almost two a.m.

Judy doubled back to Miss Spratling’s bedchamber in the mansion’s massive library. Between bookcases, she noticed one wall panel was slightly larger than all the others. She pushed against it and the whole wall slid open.

“Hello?”

She walked down the dark corridor and into the chapel.