Haunted Canada

by Pat Hancock

  Almost immediately, Jennifer spoke up from the back seat. “Keep a lookout, Dad. We’re nearly there. See that gate up ahead on the left? Turn in there.”

  Morgan wheeled the car slowly down a long, tree-shaded lane.

  “There it is. Isn’t it beautiful?” Jennifer said softly, as the car pulled into a clearing.

  “Well, it’s certainly big enough,” said her dad, shutting off the ignition.

  “And it was white once,” added her mother dubiously, as they got out of the car.

  Jennifer skipped ahead of her parents.

  “Come on, you two. Hurry up. Wait till you see inside,” she called from the huge porch that ran around three sides of the house. Tall, shuttered windows opened onto it from each side of the front door.

  “We have to wait for Mrs. Jackson,” her dad called back. “She has the key.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. You two need a key to get in,” Jennifer giggled. Then she began to call out, “I’m here. I’m here,” and drifted around the side of the house.

  “All the patio furniture would fit on this porch,” Morgan said, leading his wife up the steps after a walk around the property. “What do you think, Helen?”

  “What do I think? I think that Jennifer will be happy here. Listen to her, Morgan. And did you see her when she got out of the car? She was positively glowing.”

  At that moment, Mrs. Jackson pulled into the lane and parked.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she called out as she grabbed her briefcase and hurried toward the porch.

  “We’re early,” Morgan said. “And watch the steps. They need a little work.”

  “A little work? A lot of work, Mr. Ross. This whole place needs lots and lots of work. No one has lived here for years.” Mrs. Jackson jumped back suddenly. “What’s that? Did you hear that?”

  “What?” Helen asked. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Oh, I guess it’s just me,” Mrs. Jackson said. “Are you sure you want to see this place? It gives me the jitters. I can’t imagine an eleven-year-old liking it. Did you finally bring Jennifer with you this time? I’d like to meet her.”

  I was right, Morgan thought. She is fed up with us.

  Aloud, he simply said, “I told you she’s uncomfortable with strangers. Now, can we go in and look around, please?”

  Reluctantly, Mrs. Jackson pulled out a key, opened the door, and led the Rosses into the entrance hall.

  Fifteen minutes later, she was edging back toward the hall, waiting impatiently for the Rosses to come downstairs.

  Helen emerged from a bedroom and waved to her from the upstairs landing.

  “I just wanted to take another look at the master bedroom,” she said. “We’re ready now.”

  Morgan joined her at the top of the stairs and, together, they slowly descended. They were smiling.

  “We’ll take it, Mrs. Jackson. When can we move in?” Morgan said.

  Mrs. Jackson’s cheeks turned bright red. “But you haven’t even asked the price yet. Mind you, that won’t be a problem. It’s very low — less than half what your own house is worth. But …” she hesitated.

  “But what?” Helen asked.

  “Look, Mrs. Ross. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want this sale. I’ve spent more time with you people than I have with any other clients. I mean, we’ve been looking for nearly nine months. But I really don’t think you should buy this house. And not just because of the state it’s in.”

  “Why not?” asked Morgan.

  Mrs. Jackson hesitated again, then continued. “This afternoon, when I stopped to pick up the key from the local real estate agent, he …” she paused.

  “Go on,” Helen said.

  “Well, he told me something about the house.” Mrs. Jackson lowered her voice. “Of course, I don’t believe stuff like this myself, but he said some people think it’s haunted.”

  “Really?” Helen said. “Tell us more.”

  Mrs. Jackson looked around nervously. Speaking nearly in a whisper, she continued, “Well, apparently a family used to live here, the Moranos. They had two children — a girl, eleven, and a boy, thirteen. Five years ago, there was a terrible crash on Highway 52. Their car went off the bridge. Mr. and Mrs. Morano were saved, but not the children. They drowned. The Moranos left the house about a month later. The children had loved it out here in the country, but the house was too empty without them. It held too many memories for the parents. They just had to move.”

  Helen’s eyes grew misty. “I know just how they felt.” Then she added, “How sad. It’s always terrible to lose a child.”

  “But,” Mrs. Jackson said, speaking quickly now, “people say the children aren’t really lost, gone, whatever. Some say they’re still here. They say they’ve seen them. The two of them. Playing out in the yard, and moving past the windows late at night. Some people say they’ve even heard them singing. Laughing too. And just last week, the agent says he saw three shapes at the window, not just two. Even he is starting to believe the stories.”

  Mrs. Jackson’s cheeks were burning now. “So do you see why you probably shouldn’t buy this house? Besides, your daughter will hate it. She’ll be scared to death of the place.”

  Mrs. Jackson was opening the door now, ushering the Rosses onto the porch. Then she froze. “Did you hear that?” she croaked.

  “Hear what?” Morgan asked, stepping outside.

  “I thought I heard someone laughing.”

  “Where? Inside?” he asked.

  “No, over there,” Mrs. Jackson said, pointing toward a small, neglected orchard. “But there’s nothing there.”

  Helen and Morgan looked toward the orchard. In the glow of the sunset, they could just make out the misty shapes of three children, two girls and a boy. They were darting in and out among the old apple trees as if they were playing tag.

  Helen and Morgan looked back at each other and smiled.

  “We’ll take the house, Mrs. Jackson,” they said together.

  “But your daughter … You said she didn’t want all the other houses. I’m sure she’ll hate this one.”

  “I don’t think so,” Morgan said. “I think she’ll find it a very friendly house, don’t you, Helen?”

  “I know she will,” Helen said. “She’ll probably say it’s a dream come true.”

  A BOY’S BEST FRIEND

  Only one thing got Marshall through the miserable weeks after his dog, Fred, was hit by a car and killed. That was thoughts of summer camp.

  Whenever memories of Fred started to get to him, he’d check the calendar over his desk and count off the days till camp was due to start.

  Finally, it was the night before he was to leave for another magical summer at White Pine. Marshall picked up the picture of himself and Fred that he kept on his bedside table.

  “G’night, buddy,” he said, as he did every night. Then he tucked it into the side pocket of his bag, right next to his three new Gordon Korman books.

  “White Pine, here I come,” he thought as he snuggled under the covers. For the first time in months, he felt really and truly happy.

  But his happiness was short-lived. It lasted through the two-hour bus ride to the camp and through the silly greetings the counsellors invented for the campers. But it ended abruptly the moment Marshall opened the door of his cabin.

  There, on bed number six — right beside his — sat Zack Vincent, perpetrator of countless Zack Attacks. That’s what the other campers called the things Zack did to his victims. Most of them had suffered through at least one Zack Attack.

  Zack worked hard at keeping his reputation as the camp bully. Somehow, he must have sensed that Marshall was ripe for the picking. He launched his first attack right away.

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Sheriff. Or is it Deputy? No, wait. Now I’ve got it. It’s Marrrrr-shull.”

  The way Zack said it, Marshall almost wished his name were Dumbo. He walked slowly over to his bed, trying to ignore the fact that the other boys were
watching, waiting to see what he’d do. Tyler, a friend from last year, was the only one who might stick up for him.

  “Hey, Marrrrr-shull. Where’s your badge? You going to arrest me, Marrrrr-shull?”

  Somebody should, Marshall thought, but he said nothing. He simply went about unpacking his bag, wishing with all his heart that his mother’s expression, Ignore it — it’ll go away, were true.

  But Zack wasn’t going anywhere, and he was impossible to ignore. In the next few days, he hid Marshall’s runners, short-sheeted his bed, flipped a garter snake over the top of the stall while Marshall showered, and poured water into his bed while he slept.

  Marshall woke embarrassed, convinced he’d wet his bed. It was only later, when he overheard Zack bragging about it, that he realized what had happened. He was living a nightmare and there was no end in sight.

  That night after dinner, Marshall asked to be excused from campfire. It was the first time he’d done it, so the counsellors gave him permission.

  Thankful for some time to himself, Marshall got ready for bed and scrunched down under the covers with his flashlight, a book and his picture of Fred. He’d been using it as a bookmark all through camp. That way he could sneak a peek at it as often as he wanted.

  Tyler had asked about Fred. Tyler had a dog, too — Bowser. The previous summer, he and Marshall had spent a lot of time swapping dog stories.

  This summer, though, there was no more dog talk. Tyler didn’t want to hurt Marshall’s feelings by going on about how great Bowser was. And Marshall didn’t dare talk about Fred for fear he’d start to cry. Zack would have a field day if he ever caught Marshall bawling like a baby.

  Fred and Zack. The two had become woven together in Marshall’s mind. The more Zack tormented him, the more he longed to have Fred back.

  He stared at Fred’s picture, wishing he could make him materialize. Then it wouldn’t matter what Zack did to him.

  Fred and Zack. Zack and Fred. Marshall forced his eyes to stay open just long enough so he could switch off his flashlight and stuff his book — and bookmark — under his pillow. Then he curled up on his side, his back to Zack’s bed, and fell asleep.

  It was still dark when Marshall woke up, covered in sweat and shaking like Jell-O. The nightmare again. The one that had haunted him ever since camp started.

  In it, Marshall stood over Zack, watching him choke on a peanut butter sandwich. Fred was there too, yapping and biting at Zack’s ankles. As Zack writhed helplessly on the cabin floor, Marshall felt himself starting to laugh — a loud, gloating cackle that turned his blood to ice. As Zack gasped and held out his hands for help, Marshall turned his back and walked toward the door.

  But the door was covered by an enormous piece of paper. On it, scrawled in huge letters, was a Chinese proverb: He who seeks revenge should dig two graves. Marshall had seen it before — in English class when his teacher used it to introduce a story about a man trying to get even with a friend who had betrayed him.

  The paper swayed, blocking Marshall’s exit. Still laughing horribly, he tore through it and pushed his way outside.

  For a moment, he felt himself floating. In the dark below were two freshly dug graves. Zack’s lifeless body lay in one. Then he started to fall.

  That’s when he always woke up. Every night. Right on cue. His arms flailing, struggling to stop himself from falling into the second grave.

  The cabin was quiet, except for the rhythmic buzz of Tyler’s snoring. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Marshall could just make out Zack, lying on his side, facing him. Zack was sound asleep, a smile creasing the corners of his mouth.

  He’s probably dreaming about what he’s going to do to me tomorrow, Marshall thought. I wish he’d disappear. And, most of all, I wish you were here, Fred. I’d sic you on that creep. You’d teach him a thing or two. Geez, I miss you, little buddy.

  Marshall eventually fell asleep again, his eyes moist with secret, silent tears.

  Things got worse the next morning. His tossing and turning during the night must have knocked his book to the floor. He woke up to find Zack waving Fred’s picture in front of his eyes.

  “So, who’s this, Marrrrr-shull? Your girlfriend? Hey, guys, Marshall’s girlfriend is a real dog.” Zack laughed mockingly. Some of the other kids joined in weakly.

  “Give it back,” Marshall said, trying to get up. Zack leaned over and shoved the picture into Marshall’s face.

  “Give it back,” Marshall mumbled.

  Zack didn’t budge. Suddenly Marshall pulled back both legs and kicked with all his might. Zack tumbled to the floor. Marshall followed, in a tangle of sheets and blankets.

  “Give it to me, Zack. Right now. It’s mine.” Zack scrambled to his feet and moved to the other side of the bunk.

  “Marshall’s girlfriend’s a dog. Marshall’s girlfriend’s a dog,” he taunted.

  Marshall struggled to stand up. As he got to his feet, he tripped on the sheet and fell across Zack’s bed. Desperately, he grabbed for the picture.

  “You want it?” Zack jeered. “Here, have it.” He ripped the photo apart, crumpled the pieces, and tossed them at Marshall. Then he turned and headed for the door.

  Marshall picked up the pieces and stood up. Fighting back tears, he yelled, “You’ll be sorry for this, Zack. You wait. You’re nothing but a bully. That’s all. A scummy, scuzzy, brainless bully!”

  Someone gasped. Then there was dead silence in the cabin. Shocked, everyone was quiet, including Marshall.

  Slowly, Zack swung around and glared at him. Then, as if deciding that he’d done enough damage, he turned and strolled out the door.

  Marshall tried to salvage the photograph. He spread out the pieces on his bunk, hoping he’d be able to tape them back together. It was no use. Fred’s face was torn right down the middle and white cracks showed where Zack had crumpled the pieces. The picture was ruined. Fred was gone, and now so was his photograph.

  Thoughts of Fred and what Zack had done weighed heavily on Marshall as he trudged to the dining hall for breakfast. He didn’t dare line up at the steam table for scrambled eggs and sausages. That was a favourite place for Zack to carry out a sneak attack on his victims.

  Instead, he went directly to his cabin’s table where there was a supply of toast, cereal and juice. Before he sat down beside Tyler, he checked his chair to make sure Zack hadn’t painted it with jam.

  As if reading his mind, Tyler said, “Don’t worry. He’s not here.”

  “Where is he?” Marshall asked.

  “Gone to have a shower,” Tyler said, breaking into a grin. “He never made it to breakfast. He tripped and fell into the worst mud puddle around. Even some of the counsellors laughed.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. It was great. You should have been there.”

  Marshall was there the next time Zack tripped, on the way to lunch. And he was there when Zack stumbled on the way to the dock, too. He had his bathing suit on and skinned his knees badly.

  Then he collapsed on the way to the campfire, letting out an agonized yell as he tumbled to his battered knees again. This time, Marshall actually winced in sympathy.

  That night, Zack went to bed without tormenting anyone, not even Marshall. Marshall fell asleep smiling. At last Zack was getting exactly what he deserved.

  For the first time since camp started, Marshall slept peacefully and woke feeling refreshed. Zack, however, woke up grumpy as a grizzly bear, complaining that he’d nearly frozen to death.

  “… and whoever kept pulling off the covers better watch out,” he threatened. “When I catch him, he’ll wish he’d never been born.” He glared straight at Marshall as he said this. Then he snatched his blankets off the floor and began to make his bed.

  Marshall made his own bed quickly, anxious to get as far from Zack as possible. In a mood like that, there was no telling what he might do.

  Mind you, Marshall thought, losing your blankets like that could be really irritating, es
pecially on a cool night. He remembered how Fred sometimes used to pull off his covers. He hated waking up chilled to the bone.

  That day, strange things continued to happen to Zack. In the morning, he fell backwards off the dock, claiming a horsefly had taken a huge chunk out of his ankle. But when the waterfront director offered him AfterBite to rub on the spot, Zack could find no sign of swelling or redness anywhere.

  At dinner — a wiener roast around the fire — Zack claimed that someone snatched his hot dog. Even though he’d cooked it and drowned it in ketchup himself, he was convinced that someone had tied a string to it and yanked it away.

  When the counsellors told him to lighten up, he flew into a rage and stormed off. He was lying in bed, his face pressed into his pillow, when the others returned.

  The next morning, the cabin woke to more of Zack’s ranting.

  “If I catch that dog, I’ll stuff him in a sack with a big rock and heave him into the lake.”

  “What dog?” Tyler asked.

  “The one that yapped outside all night.”

  “I didn’t hear any dog,” Tyler said. “Did you guys?”

  The others, Marshall included, shook their heads, mystified.

  “What do you mean, you didn’t hear it? Are you deaf? Yap, yap, yap — all night long. I’m going to set a wolf trap out there tonight.”

  Zack’s talk of a yapping dog reminded Marshall of Fred. Fred used to do that sometimes — yap, yap, yap, until he got what he wanted. Wait a minute, Marshall thought. Fred used to pull the covers off my bed, too. And snatch food at barbecues. That was one of his favourite tricks.

  Suddenly, there was a loud crash followed by a scream. Zack lay sprawled at the bottom of the cabin steps. He was crying.

  Giggles rippled through the cabin. The mighty Attacker was blubbering like a baby.

  Someone called out “Wacko Zacko” and the giggles turned to hoots of mocking laughter. Everyone was laughing. Everyone except Tyler, who never laughed at other people’s troubles — and Marshall.

  Marshall wasn’t laughing because he’d just added another item to his mental list. Fred was always underfoot. It seemed like someone was forever tripping over him. This is impossible, Marshall thought. It can’t be. Fred is …