Ghostly Encounter

Ghostly Encounter

          Jason raised his bedroom window, then stopped and listened. The cool night air caused the curtains to billow into the room. He didn’t hear his parents footsteps coming to investigate so he climbed onto the sill and teetered a moment, getting his bearings. It wasn’t a big drop but he didn’t want to land in the holly bush below.
          Outside in the darkness, everything seemed different. His own backyard felt strange and unfamiliar. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. The moon-washed lawn bore little resemblance his familiar, sunny backyard. The trees whispered in the soft breeze, looking like strange and alien beings as they mumbled and plotted. They leaned together and muttered. He strained his ears to try and hear their plans. His gaze darted between the shadows, then he remembered his mother’s reassurance when he was much smaller and afraid of the dark. “It’s all the same, you just can’t see it.” She would turn the light on and off so he could see that nothing had changed. With a cold shiver, he whispered to himself, “Don’t be stupid.”
          He grabbed his bike from the back porch. The red crossbar felt cool as he lifted the bike and moved it quietly away from the house. He rode out of the yard and down the shadowed sidewalk. In the ghostly moonlight the neighborhood seemed such a dark and spooky place. He pedaled hard and fast, feeling safe on his bike. Nothing could catch him as he tore down the street like a comet. He flew through the night air, bounced over cracks and potholes, and felt freer than he ever had in the daylight when the street was filled with people. He grinned with the fullness of it.
          Then the cemetery came into view. He stopped pedaling and coasted up to the massive gate. The feeling of freedom blew away behind him on the haunted breeze from the graveyard. He swallowed the lump that rose in his throat as he slowed, then stopped, and leaned his bike against the corner post of the ornate fence. He peered through the black iron bars and looked for any signs of ghostly activity. The moonlight inside seemed darker and more menacing than it did out on the street. It highlighted the lonely stones. He wondered if he really wanted to do this as he wiped his hands on the legs of his jeans. He shook his head. He couldn’t go home now. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he thought to himself. He took a deep breath and spit on his hands, rubbed them together and looked at the top of the fence. Then he jumped for the top and hoisted himself over. He dropped to the ground in a crouch and looked around anxiously.
          Mrs. Edmundson’s funeral had been earlier today and Jason wanted to see if her ghost hung around the grave. He’d been reading about ghosts and some of the books said they do that. In the cool safety of the library, this had seemed like a great idea. Now he wasn't so sure.
          If a ghost didn’t know it was dead, it might stay by the grave. If you could help it understand, it would be freed. Being stuck in the cemetery for years and years, maybe even centuries, just cause you didn’t know you were dead, would be terrible. And sometimes the ghost would give you a reward, like telling you where buried treasure was or something cool like that. Mrs. Edmundson had been a nice lady. She always had some candy in her purse for him, or, when he went to her house with his Mom, she would give him milk and cookies, so he figured her ghost would be the good kind that wouldn’t hurt anyone. She probably wouldn’t know where any buried treasure was, but maybe ghosts knew things they didn’t know when they were alive.
          His thoughts were interrupted by a chilly blast of wind. It blew freely across the open space with only the tombstones standing in its way. They stood in an orderly fashion, their long shadows stretched out as if the graves beyond them were still open, the inhabitants waiting for the right moment to climb out and dance about in the fresh air. The moonlight was bright, but it couldn’t dispel that menacing darkness.
          Listen! Jason swiveled at the noise. Was that the sound of fettered souls as they whispered to one another? Or only the wind as it rustled the grass? He heard a creak and turned again. Could it be poor Mrs. Edmundson’s coffin as the lid strained to open and push the dirt away? Maybe it was the phantom elm tree’s limbs rubbing together like greedy hands waiting to snatch the life out of him.
          Jason’s eyes darted wildly from one stone to another as he watched for any movement. He searched for Mrs. Edmundson’s grave and his pulse quickened as he found the fresh mound. He felt a cold sweat spring up under his light jacket.
          “Probably have to wait around for midnight,” he thought. He stepped closer to the stone and squinted as he tried to read the inscription.
He heard the snap of a twig and looked up. When he saw the old man his heart leaped so high, he thought it would jump clear out of his chest. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breath. Couldn’t even blink an eye.
          “A soul is a slippery thing, boy, you’d best be sure to hold on tight to your own.”
          The old man leaned down and peered into Jason’s face. Jason could see his spotted teeth and smell his rotten breath. He stared at the man in paralyzed fascination. He was older than God, older than time, older than Jason could ever imagine.
          The old man nodded as if in agreement with Jason’s thoughts, then he laughed, a scraping, creaking sound. Jason shuddered.
          The old man’s bony fingers wrapped around Jason’s arm and tightened like a vise. How could a ghost have such a grip? Jason sucked breath into his tight chest in a strangled gasp.
         Then the old man spoke.
          “What’s your name, boy?”
          “J…Jason Jacobs, sir… I came, I came to tell you…”
          “You gotta hold it TIGHT, Jason Jacobs. Your soul is looser than most, I can see that,” he leaned closer to Jason’s ear. Jason cringed.
          “I can smell it, boy. I suppose the time is near if I can even tell you that.” The old man giggled softly.
         Dread filled Jason’s body. It began at his toes and moved slowly up his legs the way a shadow steals across the yard with the sinking sun. It made his heart feel like it was wiggling in his chest, the way a worm wiggles on a hook. His breath shuddered through him.
          He stepped away from the old man who filled his nose with the stink of the grave, pulling his arm free as he did. He continued to back away, afraid to take his eyes from the old man’s face.
          “You…you’re dead,” he managed to whisper, then louder: “I came to tell you, you’re dead.” He twisted around then and ran.
         The old man’s cracking voice followed him. “Wait, boy, wait. Did you come to show me the way? I…I can’t see you now, come back, come back….”
          Jason made it back home in half the time it had taken him to reach the cemetery. He’d torn his shirt when he climbed back over the fence. ‘Mom’s gonna kill me,’ he thought. That irony was lost on him in his terror.
          He huddled against the side of his house, under his own window where safety beckoned, an oasis in the desert of fear. He was afraid to turn his back on the darkness.
          An owl screeched. For one brief second he smelled the old man’s breath again as though it had crawled into his nostrils and taken residence within. He took a deep breath and slowly regained his composure. With one last look at the surrounding night, he jumped to his sill and climbed through his still open window. He slammed it shut, locked it soundly and yanked the curtains closed against the darkness.
          He kicked off his shoes, and, still fully clothed, jumped into bed and pulled the quilt up under his chin. His eyes moved warily from corner to corner of his once-familiar room. He felt chilled through.
          Somehow he must have fallen asleep for it seemed like only seconds before the sun sent ribbons of light around the closed curtains. He smelled familiar Sunday morning aromas as coffee brewed and bacon crisped in the pan. His mother’s voice dragged him the rest of the way from his sleep when she entered his room.
          “Jason T. Jacobs, you get up from there this instant and tell me what you were thinking of, running around outside in the middle of the night! You know better than to pull a stunt like that. “
          “Huh?” he mumbled. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Boy, did she sound mad!
          “Don’t you bother trying to deny it, young man.” She stood at the foot of his bed, arms akimbo, eyes blazing. “Mrs. Watson called this morning. Her father-in-law is senile and he disappeared last night. The police found him wandering around the cemetery. He kept telling them how he saw the ghost of Jason Jacobs! It’s bad enough to sneak out of the house, but to taunt a poor elderly man is inexcusable. You’re grounded, young man, and I don’t know when you’ll EVER be allowed out of this house again!”
          “Sounds great to me,” Jason thought, as he fell back on his pillows with a sigh of relief.
                   The End
                             by S.Tilghman Hawthorne 
Copyright © 2001 by S.Tilghman Hawthorne