Bad Things

by Tamara Thorne

  Robin giggled again, and Ricky stole another peek at the window. A second face had appeared, human yet not, liquid and solid and air all at once, ever-changing, ever-shifting. Once, Ricky had tried to draw a picture of one. It came out looking smooth and gray-green, with huge glittery black eyes and a small mouth.

  Though the drawing wasn’t exactly right, the jacks sure didn’t look much like trolls to Ricky. Trolls were squished and wrinkly and sort of cute. At least troll dolls were. Greenjacks seemed small-bodied and long-limbed, even when they weren’t. Sometimes they looked more like little whirlwinds, but they always seemed old and bad and not at all cute.

  One of them waved at Ricky. A glimmer of a lipless mouth twisted into a nasty smile.

  Ricky . . . Ricky . . . Icky Ricky . . .

  Their voices wafted in through the frames and vents of the house like a fluttering of leaves on a breeze. He heard them inside his head. Ricky, come out and play, Icky Ricky.

  “Oouh!” Ricky jumped as something poked him in the thigh. Robin was staring at him.

  Grandfather harrumphed. “Richard, what’s wrong?”

  He hesitated. “Robin punched me.”

  “Robin?”

  “He wasn’t listening,” his brother said impishly. “I think he’s looking for greenjacks.”

  “Well, Rick?” Grandfather asked patiently, “Do you see any?”

  Before he could frame an answer, Robin said, “Ricky, I fixed it so they could see in. I pushed dirt up under the windows.”

  Speechless, Ricky stared at him.

  Grandfather chuckled. “Very inventive of you, Robin.”

  “There’s a whole pack of them out there!” Robin volunteered. “They’re playing leapfrog.”

  “Good for them, but they’re going to have to play by themselves,” Grandfather added firmly, “if you want to hear the rest of the story. Ready to pay attention?”

  “Okay.” He stifled a giggle.

  Satisfied, Grandfather went on, “Since it seems that you two can see the jacks”—here he gave them a wink showing that he was just playing along—“you can see for yourselves that greenjacks are very sociable creatures, and that’s why they only want to be in human bodies capable of seeing and communicating with their own kind. Which is why they wanted Thomas.”

  Ricky . . . Icky Ricky . . . Come. out and play, hey, play ...

  Shut up! Ricky thought.

  “Young Thomas knew that the little greenjacks couldn’t hurt him, so he wasn’t afraid, not even at night when they’re most active. Early on, the little jacks tried to talk him into trading bodies with one of them. They told him he could run and play all the time and that he’d never have to do what his mother told him, or mind his manners at all, but Thomas was smart and he wouldn’t do it, no matter what they offered him. When they finally stopped trying to tempt him, he was even more careful because he knew they’d try to trick him out of his body.

  “And try they did. Spring and summer and fall, they tried all sorts of tricks, and one night, when he was nine years old, his vigilance slipped, and the greenjacks almost got him.

  “Young Thomas was a smart boy, a brave and kind boy, but he was no more perfect than any other boy, and one afternoon, about four o’clock, he did a very foolish thing. He decided to walk along the top of a wall, even though his mother told him not to. And can you guess what happened?”

  “He fell!” Robin said immediately.

  Grandfather nodded. “That’s right. It was a very tall wall, and he landed on his head and lost consciousness. Greenjacks can get you if you’re knocked out or almost dead, of course. Unconsciousness is good because they can force you out of your body and lock you in one of theirs, but almost dead is better because you can’t put up any kind of fight at all. They’re in, you’re out.

  “Young Thomas fell on the wrong side of the wall, and when he didn’t come in with the milk—did I mention he was supposed to be in the barn milking the cow, not walking on walls?—his mother and father called him and called him. When he didn’t answer, they went to look for him.

  “They found him just as the sun was setting. He still lay on the ground, unconscious, and though his parents couldn’t see them, they knew that the greenjacks would be out. Afraid, they looked at one another, then his father picked Thomas up and carried him in, and they sat by his bed and waited to see if he would still be their son. Or if he was a changeling.”

  Grandfather leaned forward, frowning dramatically. “Thomas’s parents prayed they weren’t too late, but his father held a sword in his hand, ready to run the body through if his son had become a changeling.”

  “He would have killed his own son?” Robin asked, just as he always did.

  “Yes, he would have. It’s happened before and it will happen again,” Grandfather added menacingly. “Once a jack possesses your body, nothing but a mortal wound will make it leave. Only then will it flee for its own immortal body, and only then is the poor human changeling’s soul released—either to go to whatever lies on the other side, or, for the less fortunate, to return to its original body if it’s not quite dead yet.”

  Ricky had goose bumps. The story thrilled and scared him. He could feel the greenjacks outside staring at the back of his head.

  Sicky Ricky, icky Ricky, Ricky, Ricky . . .

  Words were their toys, and they rhymed on and on. Ricky could hardly stand the shrill voices in his head.

  “Fortunately,” Grandfather continued, “when he woke up, he was still Thomas. Do you know how his parents could tell?”

  “How?” Ricky asked.

  “He answered the questions his parents asked him correctly, something a jack changeling couldn’t do so quickly. Also, he wasn’t clumsy, like he wasn’t used to his body. Finally, his eyes were still Piper eyes, midnight blue, like ours. Sometimes, not always, when a greenjack takes a human body, the irises turn darker, like the color of a greenjack’s soul. Thomas remembered nothing of his accident, except for hearing the voices of the jacks as they surrounded him, and he promised never to climb the wall or do any other forbidden things again.” The old man cleared his throat. “Years later, Big Jack almost got him on Halloween night, but that’s another story for another night. I think it’s almost dinnertime. Something smells good.”

  As Grandfather’s voice ground to a halt, Ricky saw that the little jacks were no longer at the window. The two, and a half dozen more, were cavorting in the grass under the oak tree.

  “Ricky?” Robin asked softly. “Are they there?”

  Ricky looked at his brother. Sometimes, after they were in bed with the lights out, Robin would still admit to him that he maybe believed in greenjacks even though he couldn’t see them. “Yeah, sure,” Ricky said lightly. “They’re there.”

  It was weird to look at his twin, to see a boy just like him except for not having the jack-seeing gene and not having a complete body. There were other differences too. Robin was brave like Thomas Piper, and Ricky was a coward.

  “Ricky?” Robin said suddenly. There was no mischief in his voice, only a sort of hopefulness.

  “What?”

  “They’re out there right now, aren’t they?”

  Ricky nodded.

  “Grandfather?”

  “Yes, Robin?” The old man smiled benignly, just as he always did after he told one of his stories.

  “If I traded bodies with a greenjack, could I have legs too? Like Ricky’s?”

  Grandfather’s eyes looked like dark pools of water as he pushed a chestnut curl from Robin’s forehead. “I wish it were so, but it’s not. Remember, when you dance with the devil, you become a devil yourself.”

  The boy nodded gravely, and Ricky could feel his brother’s unhappiness and longing as if it were his own. It hurt. Robin was almost never sad. Most of the time he took pride in what he could do, and Ricky knew that was part of the reason he liked to show off so much with all his handstands and acrobatics. He could even run almost as fast on his hands as Ricky could on foot.
Impulsively he leaned over and hugged his twin. “I’d share my legs with you if I could.”

  Robin hugged him back hard, then pulled away and gave him a small tentative smile that quickly evolved into his typical mischievous grin. “It’s a good thing you can’t share your legs, Ricky, ’cause you need ’em a lot worse than I do!”

  “Bite me!” Ricky said, and giggled uncontrollably. Robin looked shocked, then he burst into laughter.

  “Richard!” Grandfather intoned.

  Ricky silenced instantly.

  “Where did you learn that kind of language?”

  “From you.”

  “Me? I don’t think—”

  “You said it to that Jobber’s Witness yesterday when he wouldn’t go away. Remember, just before you slammed the door in his—”

  “Jehovah’s,” Grandfather interrupted. “Listen here, young man, promise me you’ll forget you heard that, because if you say it around your mother, she’ll fill your mouth with Ivory Soap.” His sternness dissolved “And mine, too.”

  “I promise,” Ricky said. His gaze drifted back to the window, his nervousness returning as he watched the greenjacks dance and whirl and tumble. Occasionally two or three of them would melt together to briefly form other shapes: a ghostly whirlwind of iridescence that looked sometimes like leaves, sometimes like butterflies, a small tempest of flickering greens, golds, and reds that never quite left the ground. The jacks were earth creatures, tied to the land, and they couldn’t leave it except for that one night a year when they made Big Jack. Big Jack could climb trees and cross water and he could snatch people, but at least he couldn’t leave nature and come indoors. The only unsafe place inside the house was the dirt-floored root cellar, and Ricky never, never ventured down there.

  He shivered as several jacks suddenly merged into a tall ghostly blob that bore resemblance to Big Jack, as if they could read his mind and were performing just for him.

  Ricky . . . Ricky . . . Icky Ricky, come out and play . . .

  He shivered. Maybe they could read his thoughts. Maybe they were, right this minute.

  “Look how the leaves are blowing out there,” Grandfather said as he gently dislodged Ricky from his knee. He rose, carrying Robin, and walked to the window. “Quite a little tornado going under the oak. Couple of ’em.”

  “You see them?” Ricky asked before he realized that Grandfather was talking about the real leaves that blew around in the evening wind.

  “Of course I do. My eyes are as good as ever.” He shot a serious look at Ricky. “It’s said that the greenjacks love to play in the falling leaves. Do you see them, Richard?”

  “Uh, no.” Then he saw the expectant look on his brother’s face. “Oh, yeah, I see a couple now,” he said, making sure he sounded like he was just playing along.

  “What are the jacks doing, Ricky?” Robin asked, the longing back in his voice.

  “They’re dancing.

  “In the leaves?”

  “No, Robin,” he said solemnly. “They are the leaves.”

  2

  October 31, 1972

  Cackling autumn leaves scuttled across the wide wooden steps of the old front porch. The night wind kissed the doorframe and whispered through the wire mesh, bringing with it the acrid spice of burning pumpkin and a last lingering trace of cold rainwater.

  Ricky Piper sat in his father’s easy chair and nervously rubbed his fingers over the nubby gold upholstery. It was a test of will, sitting here, but Carmen had reassured him that it would be good medicine for him to try it since there was no way the jacks could get in the house. The only thing separating the chair from the open front door was a maple end table holding a big basket of Halloween treats, candy corn and Tootsie Pops.

  Ricky . . . Icky Ricky . . . Ricky . . .

  No! Go away! He curled into a ball, hugging his legs within the circle of his arms, ducking his head so that his ears were muffled between his knees, so that all he could see was the vague greenish glow of the phosphorescent paint his mom had brushed on his skeleton costume.

  He hated the costume because it reminded him of Big Jack.

  And tonight was Big Jack’s night, when anyone could see him and anyone could be snatched. Once, Ricky had asked Grandfather how the little jacks chose which ones of them would be part of the monster, but the old man didn’t know and guessed they drew straws. The rest of the little ones would be out, too, tonight, more frighteningly clear than on any other night of the year.

  Last Halloween was the first time Ricky had ever seen Big Jack. He caught a glimpse of the creature from his bedroom window as it shambled around under the oak. It looked like a cross between a skeleton and a tree. He woke up Robin, but by the time his twin got to the window, Big Jack had disappeared. Later, near midnight, Ricky saw him again, this time crouched in the high branches of the oak tree right outside his bedroom window. He looked like part of the tree until he moved. Ricky screamed, but Big Jack was gone before anyone else could see him, and his parents thought he was having another nightmare about Grandfather Piper.

  The old man had died last year, only two days after telling that last story about Thomas McEnery Piper. He’d had a heart attack during dinner, and an ambulance came and took him away. Ricky never saw him again, except at the funeral, where he’d looked like a big wax doll with rouge on his cheeks and powder on his face. Right after that, Ricky began having dreams in which Grandfather Piper, lying in his coffin, opened his eyes and looked at him. His eyes weren’t blue anymore, but black, even the white part, all black. He’d open his mouth and say, “Icky Ricky, play with me!”

  He’d had the nightmare several times before Halloween and he’d woke up screaming, so when he saw Big Jack, he let them think he’d had another dream about Grandfather. That was the smartest thing to do.

  Even now, Ricky sometimes still woke screaming from the nightmares—about Big Jack, not Grandfather—and he wished his dad would cut down the oak tree. He couldn’t bear to look at the leafy shadows the moonlight cast across the twin beds and the cowboy wallpaper on their bedroom walls, even though he knew there was nothing there except, perhaps, on Halloween night.

  Tonight.

  They were out there: in the night, in the wind.

  Ricky . . . Ricky . . . Ricky . . .

  But they couldn’t get him, not here in the house. He knew it because Carmen had reassured him of it over and over. They couldn’t even come up on the porch, she said, and he knew from his own experience that she was right about that, too. He was safe, but it didn’t matter: He was still afraid.

  He wished he could be more like his ancestor Thomas in Grandfather’s stories. Thomas wasn’t afraid; he could walk among the greenjacks at night and ignore them, not a cowardly bone in his body. He was so brave that when he was fifteen (a foolish age, Grandfather used to point out) he tried to kill Big Jack himself, but he’d failed. Grandfather would never tell them more than that, but had promised that he would when the twins were older.

  Now he’d never know what had happened to Thomas. Ricky’s dad had never been interested in the stories and didn’t know them, so the tales had died with Grandfather Piper.

  The wind sighed, exhaling smoke-scented breath through the tree limbs, mingling its song with the voices that called his name. The jack voices sounded a little like leaves rustling in a whistling wind, and when he used to make the mistake of asking if anyone else could hear them, they’d laugh and say that’s what they were—leaves. Or they’d shake their heads and give one another knowing looks and say, “What an imagination you have, Ricky Piper.”

  When he was six and a half, he’d tried very hard to stop talking about the greenjacks, and he’d managed pretty well until Grandfather’s death. Last year, because of the dream and because he’d actually seen Big Jack, he’d begun talking about them again, and hadn’t stopped until he overheard his folks discussing him and saying that maybe they should have him talk to a doctor. After that, he never said another word to them or to Robin. He fel
t so alone that sometimes he cried, but at least he had Carmen. Though she always promised him she’d never leave, he was always afraid he’d wake up one morning and she’d be gone, especially since she’d met her boyfriend, Hector. Ricky didn’t think he could stand it here without her.

  He loved his parents very much, but they just didn’t understand like Carmen did. His dad and mom both thought the greenjack stories were fairy tales. As for Robin, he got that wishful look on his face, like he wanted to believe, less and less frequently now.

  He glanced up at the portrait of Grandfather Piper hanging on the wall behind the recliner and wished he hadn’t died. Not only did he miss him, but sometimes it seemed like the old man knew he could see them.

  Though Carmen didn’t exactly believe, she once told him that one of her uncles back in Mexico was a brujo doctor and that he said he could see things, just as Ricky could. When Ricky asked her if she believed her uncle, she only said that she believed that anything was possible.

  So even if she didn’t quite believe, at least she never teased him or said he was too old for fairy tales. Instead, she helped him learn how to act as if he weren’t afraid, and she always protected him on Halloween, either by playing along when he pretended to be sick like last year, or by taking him out before dark to trick-or-treat. Right now he could hear her and Mom talking and laughing in the kitchen while they washed the dinner dishes. Their sounds helped him have the courage to stay in the chair by the door.

  More leaves, dry brown mummies, fell from the tall oak outside to tumble and dart toward the Pipers’ big weird house. It was already getting dark out, and he nervously wondered how he was going to get out of trick-or-treating this year. Carmen had told him not to play sick again because everyone would be suspicious. He glanced at the bowl of treats, slowly reached for a packet of candy. It wouldn’t take long to eat enough sweet candy corn to really get sick. He’d get in trouble, but it would be worth it . . .