Shadow Tales

by Shirley Damsgaard

  The storm had blown from the room. Quiet, so quiet now. I heard the clock on the stove hum and the click-click of the second hand while I stood in the center of the kitchen and cried for my poor lost little boy.

  *

  “Mom, I’m really sorry about yesterday.”

  Justin stood in the kitchen doorway. His hair tousled and his pajamas buttoned crooked, but his face was smooth—no anger. A spatter of freckles crossed his nose. My heart felt as if it would burst. I loved that child so much.

  “Hey, you. Come here." I pulled him close to me. "I love you. You know that, don’t you?"

  He nodded.

  "I know all of this has been very hard for you. The divorce, moving to a new town, a adjusting to a new school, making new friends. It'll be okay, I promise,” I said, stroking the top of his blond head. “But you can’t keep taking things that don’t belong to you.”

  His body stiffened, and he pulled away from me. “Mom, I didn’t do it.”

  “We’ll talk about this when we see Dr. Martin, okay?”

  He nodded once more, his eyes not meeting mine.

  “Look, it’s Saturday. Why don't we do something fun today? Just you and me.”

  His eyes lit up with excitement. “Can you put the swing up in that big tree, like you promised? We can go get the stuff, and I’ll help,” Justin said, grinning.

  I groaned. The big maple growing in the backyard had to be fifty feet high, perfect for a rope swing. Justin loved playing there.

  “All right, but if I fall off the ladder, you have to catch me.” I grabbed him and tickled until he squirmed and giggled. My sprits lightened at the sound.

  Two hours later, I perched near the top of a twelve-foot ladder, tying the heavy rope around the thick limb. Justin stood at the bottom, supervising.

  “Is this going to be long enough?” I asked.

  “Yeah. This is great, Mom.”

  I looked down at him. His face wore a big smile while he shifted from one foot to the other and back.

  “Well, you be careful on it. No funny stuff.” I gave the rope a firm tug to tighten it.

  “I won’t. Timmy said we would have lots of fun playing on it. He had a swing just like this.”

  “Who’s Timmy? A boy from your class?” I asked, climbing down the ladder.

  “No, he’s just a friend. He told me I should be nicer to you.”

  Well, good for Timmy. I needed all the help I could get.

  “Do you want to ask Timmy over to play?”

  “Nah. He shows up when he wants to.” Justin sat in the swing and gave himself a big push with his feet. "Mama, would you miss me if I were gone?"

  Mama? What’s with the “mama”? I’d always been just plain old “Mom”.

  Shaking my head at his new choice of words, I smiled. "Why? You plan to take a trip?"

  Justin giggled as he whizzed by me. "No."

  "Why did you ask me that, then?" I watched while he pumped the swing harder.

  "Oh, Timmy said some mamas don't miss their children when they're gone."

  "Timmy's wrong. Mothers miss their children," I said, shading my eyes while I watched the swing carry him back. With each pass, he went a little higher.

  "Timmy's mama doesn't miss him. She left him."

  Poor kid.

  “Have I met this Timmy?”

  “Yeah." His legs pumped hard, pushing the swing higher and higher. "He said you took his ball. He wants it back, too."

  I grabbed the swing and stopped him. "Wait a second. He's the boy I saw at the cemetery?"

  Justin looked up at me. "Yeah."

  “Where does he live?” I let go of the swing, and Justin pushed off again.

  "I dunno know. Somewhere around here, I guess. I wasn't supposed to tell, but he was the one who took the paperweight."

  "What? Justin, stop swinging."

  His feet scuffed the ground, and the swing skidded to a stop.

  "You told Mrs. Fairchild you didn't know Timmy's name. Why did you lie to her?"

  Justin twisted the swing, making it spin him around. "I told you, I wasn't supposed to tell and I'm not going to rat on my friends. He didn't mean anything by it. Timmy just likes to play tricks on people, that's all."

  "He's not a very good friend if he gets you in trouble."

  "He said he was sorry."

  "I don't care. Friends don't do that to each other. And stop spinning. You could get tangled up in the rope and get hurt," I said, crossing my arms. "I don't want you hanging out with him anymore. I'm sorry if his mother isn't around, but he's not a good influence if he steals things and let's you take the blame."

  Justin groaned. "Mom, he's my friend, my only friend. The other kids are mean to me."

  "No, they're not. I mean it. I don't want you to be friends with him. I think you should tell Mrs. Fairchild about Timmy."

  "Can't—she wouldn't understand." He twisted the swing again.

  "Justin, I said not to do that."

  He stopped and looked up at me.

  "Okay, you don't have to tell Mrs. Fairchild, but I want you to make new friends." I bent over and picked up the ladder. When I straightened, I noticed a toy soldier lying in the grass at the base of the tree. I picked it up.

  “Justin, is this yours?” I asked, holding up the soldier.

  “No, that’s Timmy’s. He must have left it here,” he said as he swung past me.

  “When was Timmy here?”

  “Last night, after you went to bed.”

  Shocked, I stopped the swing. “Justin, you let someone in the house after I went to bed?”

  “He heard me crying, so he came. He does that a lot.”

  My heart sank. I was afraid to ask the next question.

  “Justin, is Timmy pretend?”

  “Nope. He's real."

  "Did you let him in?"

  "No. I don't know how he gets in, but he does.”

  Great. A strange kid sneaking in without my knowledge. Tonight all the doors and window would be firmly locked. I frowned, dragging the heavy ladder back to the garage. What was this kid’s dad thinking? Letting him creep around the neighborhood at night.

  "If he ever shows up again, you are to tell me immediately,” I said emphatically.

  *

  The next morning, while we were standing in the produce aisle, I turned to my sister. "I swear, Nell, I don't know what to do next."

  She held up a cantaloupe. "Does this look fresh to you?"

  "Did you hear what I said?"

  "Yes."

  "Well?"

  Nell carefully placed it back on top of the others. "I don't know what to tell you, Meg. Justin's a sweet kid, but the temper tantrums and the stealing have to stop.”

  “I know...I know,” I said with a sense of helplessness, “but everything I try doesn’t seem to work.”

  "What does Dr. Martin say?"

  "He still thinks it's attention deficit disorder, but I don't think the medication is helping. Justin is still throwing tantrums, still stealing." I shook my head.

  "Does Justin ever talk about the divorce?"

  "Only when he's mad, then he tells me it's my fault his dad left us."

  Nell leaned over and gave me a hug. "Poor Meg, everyone wants to blame you for something, don't they?" She stepped back and smiled. "You're doing the best you can, you know."

  I looked away, so she wouldn't see the sudden tears in my eyes.

  Glancing around the dingy little store, it reminded me of the corner grocery in our old neighborhood. It had the same industrial green paint and the same cracked linoleum. Once a week, Nell and I had walked up the block to the store to buy a bottle of pop. And once a week, Nell had to save me from the big German shepherd that lived between our house and the store. He barked and strained at his chain, while I cowered behind Nell, clinging to her arm. She pulled me along, past the dog, while she yelled at him. Always the same thing, "Shut up, you stupid dog."

  I smiled at the memory. It must have been qu
ite a show for the neighborhood. I wish I could cower behind her now, like I had when I was a child. Let her save me, save Justin.

  Lost in my thoughts, it seemed I heard the clock in the back of the store ticking. I glanced at Nell. Did she hear it, too? No, she was busy reading the back of a cereal box.

  "Nell—"

  She looked up. "Ah oh. Gossip alert. Incoming at twelve o'clock." She jerked her head toward two women approaching us.

  Two elderly ladies pushed their carts directly at us, effectively blocking the aisle and any chance of escape. Their faces wore wide smiles, and their eyes glinted.

  "Good morning, Nell. How are you?" one of them said.

  "Fine, Mrs. Carter. Mrs. Thomas." Nell nodded. "And you?"

  "We're in pretty good shape for the shape we're in," Mrs. Thomas said.

  Mrs. Carter cackled at her friend's humor, then turned and stared at me.

  "Oh, I'm sorry. You haven't met my sister, have you? Meg, I'd like you to meet Mrs. Carter and Mrs. Thomas," Nell said.

  "Nice to meet you," they said together.

  "How do you like it here, Meg?" Mrs. Carter asked.

  "Very well, thank you. It's great to be close to Nell again."

  Smiling, they nodded in unison.

  "Finding everything you need?" Mrs. Thomas asked.

  "Yes, everyone has been very helpful."

  They nodded again, smiles still firmly in place. They were beginning to remind me of those plastic dogs people put in the rear window of their cars, the ones whose heads bob up and down continuously.

  "Aren't you renting the old McAlister place?" Mrs. Carter's smile widened, and her eyes brightened.

  "Yes, I am."

  Again with the nodding.

  "Do you like it?"

  "Yes, I do. In fact, Mr. McAlister has offered to sell it to me." Nell's foot made contact with my right ankle. I turned and glared at her. When I turned to the ladies, their smiles had vanished, and their nodding had stopped.

  "Oh, dear." Mrs. Carter looked at Mrs. Thomas, who shook her head as if to say 'no.'

  "Is there something wrong with the house?" I asked, puzzled at the sudden change in them.

  Neither one would look at me. Their eyes were locked on each other, and silent communication seemed to pass between them.

  Mrs. Thomas turned her head and stared at the shelves behind me. "No, no, not really wrong, but—"

  "It was nice to meet you, Meg, but we have to go. We both have hair appointments. Come on, Blanche." Mrs. Carter made a move to push past us with her cart.

  Nell moved her cart slightly, blocking their escape. "Wait a second. What's going on? What aren't you telling us about the McAlister place?"

  Mrs. Carter turned to Mrs. Thomas, who gave a slight nod. "There are stories about the house."

  "What kind of stories? I've never heard any," Nell said.

  "You wouldn't, dear. It's been a long time since the last one happened. It was, what, the summer of 1930?" Mrs. Carter asked.

  "Yes, the same summer ten of Daddy's cows died," Mrs. Thomas replied.

  "So, what happened?" Nell asked.

  "One of the children living in the house committed suicide. He hanged himself in the attic.” Mrs. Carter chewed nervously on her bottom lip. “There had always been stories about his family, how his father mistreated the children, but no one expected one of them to kill himself. It caused a big scandal.”

  "That's tragic, but it happened, what 80 years ago? Why would it matter now?" Nell asked.

  Mrs. Carter shifted from one foot to the other. Mrs. Thomas stared at the cracked linoleum. Both women refused to look at Nell.

  Finally, Mrs. Thomas focused her attention on Nell. "Because he wasn't the first. Five children have died in that house over the years, and all by hanging. Either accidentally or by their own hand."

  Before we could ask another question, Mrs. Carter gripped the handle of her shopping cart with her gnarled hands and gave it a hard push, knocking Nell's out of the way.

  "We really must go," Mrs. Thomas said over her shoulder, following Mrs. Carter.

  They hurried off, their heads together, whispering. Nell and I stood in the aisle, speechless.

  *

  The house was quiet, too quiet. The only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. It had just chimed eleven. I sat alone at the kitchen table, thinking. Was this house cursed? Nell had scoffed at the old ladies' superstitions. She said probably neither one of them had ever been out of the county. Their lives were dull, so what did I expect? The idea of a cursed house gave them some excitement, something to talk about. But I wondered. Why had five children died here?

  I pushed away from the table and paced the room, hugging myself tightly. The kitchen became too small, and the ticking of the clock grew louder. It seemed to tick faster and faster. I suddenly felt like I was running out of time. My panic rose, and I couldn't breathe. I ran out the door and onto the porch.

  While I stood there, trying to catch my breath, I saw the harvest moon shining down. Clouds raced across its face and dimmed its brightness. From a distance, I heard a sound, not the tick, tick of the clock, but creak, creak. The sound Justin made when he swung back and forth on the swing. Was it the wind, or was it Justin? I rushed up the stairs to his room.

  The door bounced against the wall when I pushed it open. Justin's sheets lay in a tangled wad at the foot of his bed—his empty bed. He was on that damn swing again, and at this time of night.

  I rushed to the window. In the light of the moon, I saw two silhouettes by the maple tree. Two little boys, and one was Justin. The light shone on his blond hair, giving him away. The other boy must be that Timmy, I thought. What kind of father lets his eight-year-old wander around the neighborhood this time of night? I intended to find out.

  When I reached the tree, they were gone. Where were those little devils? Creak, creak. The swing drifted back and forth in the wind. The same wind tugged at me while I scanned the road. There, down the driveway, the glimmer of Justin's blond hair. I took off after them, and in my head, I thought I could hear the ticking of a clock.

  They saw me and, instead of waiting, ran down the road. Ha, they knew they were in trouble, and I could hardly wait to get my hands on them. They were going to be two sorry little boys.

  I chased them down the road, running to the rhythm of the clock inside my head, but they were fast. They stayed in front of me, all the way to the cemetery. They ducked through the gate, and I lost sight of them in the pine trees.

  Clutching the gate, I stopped to catch my breath. I'd already lost that kid once in the cemetery, and I wasn't going to do it again. The clock ticked faster. I pushed away from the gate and jogged down the lane.

  On either side of it, the headstones stood like silent sentinels, guarding the dead. The full moon illuminated the smooth stone faces and cast eerie shadows behind them. Over the sound of wind in the pines, I could hear the faint voices of the two boys. I ran toward the voices.

  In the older part of the cemetery, the boys sat in front of a headstone, talking quietly, but their voices reached me.

  "It won't hurt, I promise," the boy, Timmy, said.

  Justin picked at the dead leaves by the headstone. "I'm scared. Besides, Mom said she would too miss me."

  "Ha, that's what my mama always said too, but she left me anyway. You told me your mama didn't like you."

  "I said that when I was mad at her. Maybe I was wrong."

  "You're a chicken."

  "Am not."

  "Then do it. We'll have lots of fun, if you do. We can play tricks on everybody—that ol' Mrs. Fairchild, Dr. Martin—everybody that's been mean to you. And they'll never catch us."

  "I don't know."

  Timmy jumped to his feet and kicked at the headstone. "You said you were my friend, but you're just like the others,” he said, the anger in his voice rising above the wind. “Even if you did have guts enough to do it, you'd probably leave me, too. Just like they did
. And I helped them. Their mama and daddy hurt them. They were better off with me."

  Justin stood. "I wouldn't leave you."

  Timmy took a step closer to Justin. "Then do it. It's easy. You just wrap the rope around your neck and jump. I did it, and I didn't even mean to. The rope just kinda tangled around my neck."

  A cloud suddenly blew across the moon, casting the cemetery and Justin in darkness, but not Timmy. He seemed to glow with an unnatural light. A rope lay at his feet. I froze as if held in place by an unseen force.

  Oh my god! Oh my god! Justin was going to die. And the clock, ticking in my brain, stopped. A scream from deep in my soul fought its way out.

  "No!" I fell to my knees.

  The moon reappeared from behind the cloud and both boys looked at me.

  "Justin, baby, come here. Get away from him." I held out my arms to him as my throat clogged with tears. "Please...please. Don't leave me. I...I love you."

  Timmy looked at me, then at Justin. “Are you goin’ to do it or not?”

  Justin glanced over at me, uncertainty written on his face.

  Fighting against the force holding me, I began to crawl toward him. If I could only grab Justin and pull him away from Timmy. “Please,” I pleaded again, “Justin...don’t listen to him.”

  Timmy glanced over at me again, and his face changed. "Look at her bawlin' and carryin' on,” he said, jerking his head toward me. “Oh, go on—I guess she does love you. You're not the right one after all."

  Justin ran to me, fell to the ground, and wrapped his arms around my neck. "Mom, Mom, he wanted me to come with him, but I didn't want to leave you. I'm sorry, Mom. I'll be good, honest I will. Don't cry, please."

  While I held Justin tightly in my arms, I raised my head and looked over to where Timmy stood. Tears trickled down each side of Timmy’s face as the light around him seemed to pulse with sadness.

  "Thank you for not taking him."

  "Timmy," a soft voice whispered on the wind.

  Timmy wiped his nose with his ragged sleeve. "Mama?"

  A shadow from below the pines moved forward into the moonlight. It took the shape of a woman in a long dress. "It's time to come home now."

  "Mama, I didn't leave. I wouldn’t go because of you, but then you went away and left me.” His plaintive voice echoed around us. “I've been looking and looking for you. I've been so lonely." Timmy moved away from the headstone and walked toward the pine trees.