Strange Ghosts

by Scott William Carter

  "There’s no such thing as ghosts," he told me when I asked about the rumor.

  "Then why are you buying the park?"

  "It’s a great opportunity," he said. "It’s nearly bankrupt, and I thought we could keep it going. Your brother, you know, he really liked the place."

  As part of the divorce settlement, it was decided that I would spend summers with my father and the school year with my mother. My mother immediately moved back to Illinois, so I knew when September rolled around again I’d be leaving everything I knew for a strange place. I blamed my mother for the divorce and wouldn’t speak to her when she called.

  That July, my father sold the house to help pay for his purchase of the amusement park, and we moved onto the grounds of The Enchanted Grove. We went from a luxurious five bedroom home in the suburbs of Rexton to a cramped, two-bedroom silver trailer tucked in the woods. My father’s official explanation was that it would be easier to turn around the park financially if he was close at hand, but I didn't believe it for a second. It was true that during the day he worked tirelessly to improve the park, but the night was a different story.

  While I tossed and turned in the stifling hot trailer, the cars buzzing across the nearby freeway, he wandered the forest. When he returned, I heard the creak of the screen door and clink of a beer bottle dropping into a paper bag full of other beer bottles. It was the same every night, and by his own restless shifting in bed, I knew he hadn’t found what he was looking for.

  For the next two months, my father unlocked the gates at nine in the morning and the wide-eyed kids trickled in. We were always praying for a flood of them, but it was never that many. I visited all of the displays and rides so many times that I became the unofficial search and rescue agent when a child wandered off. Whatever I was doing, my eyes were always on the trees, desperate for any sign of Tim. Once, when coming down the Puss N’ Boots slide, I thought I saw the blur of black in the trees. Thinking it was his cap, I went to investigate only to find a crow pecking at a bag of popcorn.

  With the school year beginning in less than three weeks, I was beginning to worry that that the rumors were wrong. Late one evening, on a particularly slow day because it had drizzled until only an hour before closing, I was cutting through the forest when I felt something. A cold breath tickling the hairs on the back of my neck. I pushed through a damp fern and there he was, sitting on a moss-covered log. He was dressed in jeans and his favorite Batman t-shirt, wearing his Blazers cap cocked slightly to the side.

  "Tim?" I said.

  He smiled and got to his feet, motioning for me to follow. We were of the same height. He seemed physically real, right down to the scabs on his elbows. My heart pounded as I followed him through the forest, but I was more excited than afraid. I said his name a few more times, but he didn’t answer. We headed through a growth of ivy, the wet vines whipping at my bare legs. When I stumbled into a clearing on the other side, he was gone, and another boy stood in his place. He was a short, pudgy, with skin the color of walnut, and freckles all over his nose. He flashed a toothy grin when he saw me.

  "Who are you?" I asked.

  "Mathew Alexander," he answered. "Can you find my parents?"

  I looked around, hoping Tim hadn’t gone far.

  "Did you see another boy come through here?" I asked.

  "Please help me," the boy said.

  "Lost, huh? Well, just come with me back to the office. I’m sure they’re waiting for you there."

  "Tell them Mathew’s still smiling," he said, "just like they wanted."

  "You can tell them yourself. Just come with me."

  "I can’t leave here. Please hurry."

  "Hurry? What do you—"

  But before I could finish, he was gone, vanished before my eyes. The breeze picked up, shuffling the trees. I searched the brush for nearly a half-hour for my brother or the other boy, but with no luck. I did not go to the office to tell them about the boy. Instead I returned to my trailer and pulled out the wrinkled list of victims I had cut from the newspaper the day after the accident.

  Just as I thought, Mathew Alexander was the first one on the list.

  When I told my father during dinner about what happened, he turned paler than the kids strapping themselves into the roller coaster for the first time. He put his fork down, then steepled his fingers as if was about to pray.

  "When did this happen?" he asked.

  "In the forest. Between the Three Bears and the Old Woman in the Shoe."

  "And you saw this other boy too?"

  "Mathew, yeah. He wants me to get his parents. He said they need to say goodbye."

  "How much sleep did you get last night?"

  "Dad! I saw him, I swear."

  He nodded, saying nothing, staring blankly into space. When he turned to me again, he gave me the look I imagined he used to give people applying for a loan, a steely-eyed, furrowed-brow look which was intended, I suppose, to pressure the truth out into the open.

  "You must be mistaken," he said.

  "But Dad—"

  "I don’t want to hear any more about it, Laura. And don’t go bothering the other boy’s parents with this nonsense. It was already hard enough dealing with the accident. It was so unexpected, so sudden . . . A lot of them have put it behind them. We don’t want to dredge it all up again."

  "What if it was his ghost?"

  "There’s no such thing as ghosts. Just ghosts that exist in your mind, ghosts that your mind wants to see — that it wants to see so badly that it just obliges you and shows you what you want."

  Just the same, he stayed out far longer that night than usual. The air was heavy and humid and sleep would not come. The sheets were a heavy, tangled mass around my sweaty legs. When my father returned, he tried to tip-toe into my room, but he banged against dresser, rattling Tim’s models.

  I was still angry at him from dinner, so I didn’t open my eyes. I felt his weight settle next to me on the bed, felt his warm breath, laced with alcohol, on my check. He didn’t say anything for the longest time. Finally I couldn’t take it any longer.

  "Dad . . . ?"

  "Yesssdear?" His speech was slurred.

  "Did you see him?"

  "No."

  "Maybe later. Maybe you’ll see him later."

  "Shush now. I want to say something to you. I want to say sorry, I’m sorry, sorry for what I said. If you saw him, you saw him. I don’t want to take that from you. I want it too, you know. I want to see him — but not enough imagination, my fault, thought a few drinks might help, but no . . ."

  "Maybe he’s waiting for the right time," I said.

  "Maybe. Or maybe it’s like those pictures at the mall."

  "Which pictures?"

  "The three dimensional ones. They had a display of them at the mall about a year ago, remember? There were pictures in the designs, but not everyone could see them. You and your brother, I remember, got it right off. A fox! A rocket! I could never see them. I remember the salesman, he tried to help. He really wanted me to see them so that I’d buy one. Blur your eyes. Look at the reflection. Nothing worked. I got to thinking later, maybe some people can’t see them, no matter how hard they try."

  I didn’t know what to say, so I squeezed his hand. I was astonished at how cold and bony his fingers were.

  "Can I call the other boy’s parents?"

  He sighed. "I don’t like it, but I won’t stop you."

  Early the next day, before the park even opened, I looked up the Alexanders in the Rexton phone book. After three unsuccessful attempts, I managed to get the right Alexander on the phone.

  "Are you the mother of Mathew Alexander?" I began.

  She was silent for a long time before answering. When she finally spoke, she sounded more like the young sister of Mathew than his mother. "Who is this?"

  "Laura Morse, ma’am. I’m . . . the kid sister of one of Mathew’s friends."

  "Why are you calling?"

  "Mathew wants you to come say goodbye."<
br />
  "What?"

  "I said, Mathew—"

  "Why are you doing this? Is this some kind of cruel joke? Well, you’ve had your fun. I’m crying. Is that what you wanted?"

  "No, please, listen—"

  "Just go away!"

  "Don’t hang up! Mathew told me to tell you he’s still smiling, just like you wanted. He’s still smiling in heaven."

  "What? How did you know . . . ?"

  "We may not have a lot of time for me to explain. Get your husband and come to The Enchanted Grove. Mathew is here. Ask for me at the front desk. I’ll be waiting for you."

  They came. They did not looked pleased about it, but they came. Mrs. Alexander’s skin looked as white as ivory, especially standing next to her husband, who must have had Hispanic blood. He was dark-complected, with black, bushy eyebrow that were always furrowed. Dressed in an impeccable gray business suit, he stomped up to the counter of the gift shop and demanded to see one Laura Morse.

  I was standing near a postcard spinner rack when the lady at the counter pointed at me.

  "What’s all this about?" he asked me, as if he was disputing a traffic ticket. "You’ve got my wife all riled up."

  I didn’t answer. Instead, I motioned for them to follow. He persisted with his questions until he saw that it was no use. Children scrambled around us, hurrying from ride to ride, screeching and giggling. I led the Alexanders somberly through the paved paths. They hesitated when I ventured from the path into the forest, so I took Mrs. Alexander's hand. Mr. Alexander complained about getting his suit dirty, but he followed.

  We didn’t have to walk far. Mathew was sitting on the log waiting for us, and his face broke into the largest grin yet when he saw who I had with me.

  "Hello," he said.

  Mrs. Alexander shrieked and rushed to him, throwing her arms around him. "He’s real, he’s real!" she cried. Mr. Alexander said, "My boy" over and over, his voice cracking. He stumbled to his son as if he was sleeping walking, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  I left them in the clearing and returned to the paved path. Ten minutes later they emerged, clothes wrinkled, eyes and cheeks swollen. All of Mr. Alexander’s hostility was gone. He walked hand in hand with his wife, shoulders slumped, eyes downcast. There was a despondency about them, but when they stepped onto the paved path and saw me waiting, they smiled weakly.

  "I didn’t think it was possible," Mr. Alexander said, "but I’m glad I came. I didn’t know it until now, but it’s what we needed."

  "He wanted to thank you," Mrs. Alexander said, "for helping us. You’ve done a wonderful thing, dear."

  They headed for the front gate, never once glancing back. My heart soared at their compliment. I felt like a ship long lost at sea finally spotting a distant horizon. I'd been drifting since Tim’s death and now my life had meaning.

  Tim appeared to me many times the rest of that summer — always dressed in the same clothes, always silent like a mute, always in the same clearing. Each time he came he brought a new friend. Brittany Benson, Jan Clark, Nathan Edwards . . . one by one, we worked our way down the list. The parents always came, reluctantly or impatiently, together or separately, angry or hopeful, but they came. It got easier the further along we went, because word must have spread among the parents about what was happening. When they emerged from the forest, they all had the same relieved look about them, as if they had just found the missing piece to a difficult puzzle.

  No one in the park but my father knew what was happening, and sometimes I would pass him on the trail, a parent or two in my company. Often he would shake their hands and ask who they were, his lips silently repeating their last names. He was counting them, I realized. He was hoping when they were all finished, he would have his chance.

  Business wasn’t good at the park. It was a scorcher that summer, with temperatures soaring into the nineties. The money had already been hard to come by when my father took over and it now it became as scarce as the rain. Ticket sales were sluggish; I could go from one end of the park to other and often pass only a handful of people. We were in the P’s, with seven names left on the list, when my father sat on my bed one night. He resembled one of his cartoon statues now, his neck and limbs rail thin. Outside my window the mosquito light crackled as it felled more of its victims.

  "I’ll be closing the park," he said.

  I bolted upright in bed. "Closing? But you can’t!"

  "I don’t have a choice. The creditors are calling. I’m behind on the taxes. I can barely pay the help. If I don’t sell now, our situation could get much worse."

  "But there’s more names. Another week or two. Please."

  He nodded. "I know. I was hoping . . ."

  "Give me just a little more time. Maybe, when we’re done —"

  "I can’t, I’m sorry."

  "But, Dad!"

  "Once we close, it will take about two weeks to liquidate the assets. You can still do what you have to do for a few more days."

  I didn’t know if it would be enough time, but as if he sensed what was happening, Tim began appearing every day. Nancy Pearson, Katie Richards, Travis Stenk . . . The park closed the day after my father gave me the news, then the bidders came. They bid on everything — the rides, the concession stands, even the railings.

  A little at a time, The Enchanted Grove began to disappear. The displays were disassembled and packed onto trailers. The roller coaster was broken down and carted away. The gift shop shelves were cleared. The statues, the benches, the fountains were all loaded onto pick-up trucks. By the end of the week, all that was left of the park were the paved paths, like the skeletal remains of a carcass left for vultures.

  "We’ll be leaving on Saturday," my father told me, "and we’ll be going straight to the airport in Portland. You’ll be flying to Illinois to be with your mother."

  I protested, but he would hear nothing of it. By the terms of the custody agreement, he had to put me on that plane. Henry Slovak, Evette Toran, Brian Vox . . . and finally, on Friday, I came to Julie Zimmerman, the last on the list. Her parents came and wept, and then they were all gone.

  The next day, while my father finished helping the buyers cart away the last remnants of the park, I wandered through the forest. I sat on the log and waited, the park strangely silent. There had always been noise — in the beginning, the groans of the machinery and the cries of the children, and later, the clank of metal being loaded into metal trailers and metal trucks—but now it was as silent as a cemetery.

  When it was growing dark, and the crickets had come out to sing, my father pushed through the brush and sat next to me.

  "The car is packed," he said.

  "Let’s wait just a little longer," I said.

  "We can’t, Laura. We’ll miss your flight."

  "Please. He should come."

  We waited. A breeze picked up through the trees and stirred the branches, but Tim did not appear.

  My father stood.

  "Let’s go," he said.

  "I don’t understand. I thought he would come."

  My father opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing. He shrugged helplessly, then took my hand and led me through the forest back to the path.

  "Don’t cry now, dear," he said. "It was a wonderful thing you did, helping all those people say goodbye."

  "But I was doing it for you," I said. "I was sure you’d get your chance."

  He nodded. "I think I did. This park, this was my way of saying goodbye. I never believed in ghosts. I’m just one of those people who can’t see the picture within the designs, no matter how hard I try. It doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with me. It’s just a matter of who I am. Your brother . . . I don’t think he would want me to be someone other than who I am, do you?"

  I didn’t have an answer for him, because I still felt cheated. I was sure that if we waited long enough Tim would come, but time had run out. My father led me out the gate, then we were in the car and on the road.

  It was
n't until I was on the plane to see my mother that I realized that I had never said goodbye to Tim myself.

  * * * * *

  Years later, I returned to The Enchanted Grove. I was married with two children, living in Illinois, when we decided to take a trip to Disneyland and then up to Oregon to see my father in Portland. On a whim, I asked my husband to pull off I-5 and stop where the park used to be. In its place was a retirement community, most of the forest cleared to make room for a little cluster of cottages. But wandering behind the houses to the forest beyond, I found that the same clearing with the old log was still there.

  I sat and waited like no time had passed, and after not too long, I saw him come out of the trees, waving, smiling, opening his mouth to speak . . . and it wasn’t until he was almost upon me that I recognized him as my own son, this skinny kid with large feet and big ears. He was the spitting image of Tim — and so he was named.

  "Are you ready to go, Mom?" he asked.

  And I was. Finally, I was.

  The Easel

  The storm broke at dusk. With the light fading, Stevens threw on his trench coat and his fedora and sauntered into the chill evening. The crimson hue on the horizon reminded him of a lipstick his wife once wore. As he rounded a corner, he saw a young man removing a sign marked "Estate Sale" from a telephone pole. The man moved languidly, as if he was underwater, and he turned and smiled sadly at Stevens.

  "Sale's finished," he said.

  "I wasn't—" Stevens began.

  "She was only fifty-two," the man said. "Can you believe it? I never thought, well . . ."

  "I was only passing by—"

  "I hate selling her things, but I'm not from around here. If there's anything in there you want . . ."

  "I'm not looking for anything, really."

  "Well, you could look. She was a neat lady."

  The young man had such a pleading look that Stevens hated to leave without at least glancing at what was left. He followed him to an open garage a few houses down the street. It was a small house, fifties era, much like his own. The tiny garage was crammed full of various knick-knacks and oddities, laid out regally on tables covered with purple tablecloths. It was utterly depressing to Stevens to see the poor woman's life reduced to a drab collection of crock pot cookers and broken hair pins. There was nothing that held any attraction for him. He turned to the man to tell him he must be on his way when he spotted an oak drawing easel folded up and leaning against the back wall. It appeared worn and aged, the metal frame rusted, the wood surface chipped and discolored. He asked the man if it was available.