The Marchstone Dale_Omegaverse 6

by G. R. Cooper

  “In America,” he said, “we have a tradition. We tell ghost stories around the campfire.”

  “You’re not the only country that does that,” said Corwin.

  Wulfgar smiled, “Just as well.” He leaned forward, “I wish I had a flashlight to shine underneath my chin,” he laughed. Then he thought for a moment. He looked down, and guessed that his head was a meter above the ground. He activated his Illumination spell, setting the diameter of the sphere to much smaller than maximum. The half ball of light shone around the lower half of his body, to just below his head. The laughter of his camp-mates told him that he was at least close in highlighting his face in an eerie manner.

  He began speaking.

  “Donovan is four. Well, four and a half. He'd want me to make that distinction. When the big kids are six years old, that distinction is important. When he was just four, he came to live with me for a couple of months. He also brought his father, who is my brother, his mother and his sister as well, but they don’t factor into the story. They were moving from California back to the east coast and were staying with me while their old house sold and their new house was vacated. That doesn’t factor into the story either.”

  “Donovan is smart. Precocious is the normal word for it. He has been reading for a year and doing math for almost as long. He’s not a savant or anything, but he’s well ahead of the normal curve. Most people don’t realize he’s only four, as he’s not only very well spoken for his age, he’s larger than normal. He is the physical size of most of those big kids who are six. He’s also smarter than most of them. He is, however, emotionally just a four year old. That tends to cause problems. He’s too immature to get on well with the big kids and too advanced to have any patience with his peers. He tends to get frustrated and act out. Thus, he tends to look inward for company. His imagination is probably his best friend.”

  “We were playing together, a few weeks after he’d moved in. Long enough time that he was comfortable with the new sights, surroundings and people. He’d become acclimated enough to me to be able to request that we play, rather than wait for my invitation.”

  “Like many four year old boys, he loves cars - especially trucks. We were playing with his cars one evening, racing across the floor, when I crashed and rolled my car.”

  “Oh no, he cried with playful severity, you crashed!”

  “I nodded and asked, can you help me, sir?”

  “He thought for a moment. Yes sir, I can. I have a mechanic truck that can fix you.”

  “Whew! Good! Thanks!”

  “He looked up a me, suddenly serious.”

  “The mechanic truck is downstairs.”

  “I needed to get something to drink anyway, so I took advantage of the situation.”

  “You go get the truck and I’ll get us some juice!”

  “He nodded and stood. He looked solemn. I didn’t understand. I wondered if maybe he was taking my car crash a little more seriously than the play warranted.”

  “It’ll be OK, I said, referring to my crashed car.”

  “He nodded again and began walking toward the basement door. I followed along behind and walked into the kitchen, which was next to the basement door. I heard Donovan muttering something as he went down the stairs, so I went over and poked my head into the opening.”

  “As he went down each step he kept whispering.”

  “No spooky stuff.”

  “No spooky stuff.”

  “No spooky stuff.”

  “He reached the bottom of the stairway and made his way toward the area of the basement where his mechanic’s truck waited.”

  “No spooky stuff.”

  “No spooky stuff.”

  “I realized that he was afraid. It reminded me of being his age, being afraid of the dark corner and the dark windows made opaque from the interior lights; possibly hiding anything just on the other side of the glass. I remembered being that afraid at night.”

  “I remembered having to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. Staying underneath my covers, trying in vain to hold my pee all night long. I could picture making my way down the dark hallway between my bedroom and the bathroom; trying to be as quiet as possible. Trying to avoid the attention of - whatever. I peed as quickly as possible, the closeness of the bathroom window hovering above me drawing my complete attention. Having finished, more or less, I sprinted, breath held, back down the hallway to leap into my bed and dive underneath the covers.”

  “I remembered my toy farm set, specifically the cardboard silo. It was a simple cardboard tube, maybe five inches in diameter, with a metallic plate at the base and a plastic, removable dome top. I came to use that as my night-time toilet. I can still remember worrying that my mother would discover the urine filled silo as I emptied it each morning after the demon banishing light had returned for the day.”

  “Like Donovan, I had to look to myself for companionship. In my case, it was because my family - at that time, just myself, my mother and my father - lived on a farm deep in the Virginia mountains. It was remote, but the price was right. My father was attending college at the time and the farm belonged to my uncle, my father’s brother in law. We stayed there for no cost. I’m sure that was a huge help to my parents, but for me, at four years old, it was lonely.”

  “That was about the time that lifelong memories began to form for myself, and I remember much about being at the farm. I remember my pony. I remember learning how to feed it carrots, making sure my fingers were stretched as far as possible when I had the carrot on my palm so I wouldn’t get bit. I remember riding it, with my Irish setter, Penny, running along side. I recalled how the field past the horse pasture had a large tree, underneath which lived an old bull. I remembered how much fun it was to run to tag the tree and try to run back and roll underneath the fence before the bull could charge me. I remember Penny nipping the bull’s flank if it got too close to me.”

  “I remember Jimmy.”

  “Jimmy was my best friend. He and I played together every day. Jimmy lived at 1606 Buddingbrook lane. Jimmy was four years old too. He liked my toys. He told me he was afraid of the dark, too, and didn’t like it when he had to get up in the night to pee either. Jimmy and I spent a lot of time talking to each other.”

  “I couldn’t tell you, however, what Jimmy looked like. Jimmy was my imaginary friend. He wasn’t secretive or anything like that. Mom would dutifully set a place for Jimmy at dinner and remind me to say goodnight to him before bed. She always made a point to remind me to include Jimmy in my prayers, every night.”

  “Being a lonely four year old, Jimmy was a big part of my life.”

  “A few years back, I asked my parents about that time. About Penny. We had to give her away after dad graduated and we moved to the city in an apartment too small to keep a large dog. I still remember looking at her and her adoptive owners as we drove away. I wasn’t crying, just waving. I didn’t understand that was the last time I’d see her.”

  “It turned out that Mom knew about the silo. She laughed, recalling the rusted metal bottom and the repeatedly wet cardboard that started to fall apart. She never worried too much about it since I was pretty good about emptying it most mornings.”

  “Mom told me about Jimmy.”

  “Jimmy was four years old. Jimmy lived at 1606 Buddingbrook lane. Jimmy died in a fire.”

  “She’d been concerned when I first told her about Jimmy. That he was my friend. That I talked to him and that he talked to me.”

  “She worried that I’d seen the news reports about Jimmy when he had died in that fire. He died in his sleep, his parents unable to save him when 1606 Buddingbrook lane caught fire in the middle of the night. Afterward, she made sure that I didn’t pay too much attention to the news when that kind of story came on; you never know what kids will pick up.”

  “All of that came back to me as I listened to Donovan run to get his truck.”

  “No spooky stuff.”

  “No spooky stuff.”
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  “I was overcome with pride. My memories had brought back just how overwhelmingly terrifying the unknown terrors of the lonely basement or midnight bathroom were. But Donovan was pushing through it, scared though he was. I wouldn’t have had the guts to do that when I was four.”

  “No spooky stuff.”

  “No spooky stuff.”

  “Donovan got to the top of the stairs, mechanic’s truck clutched in his little hands. He looked up at me, startled; unaware that I had been at the top of the stairs.”

  “I looked down at the little brave guy, unsure of what to say.”

  “I’m sorry, I should have gone down there with you. It must have been scary.”

  “That’s OK, he smiled. I wasn’t really alone.”

  “I smiled back, No. I was here the whole time.”

  “I didn’t mean you, he shook his head, I meant my friend. Jimmy. He’s four years old. He lives at 1606 Buddingbrook lane.”

  Wulfgar leaned back against the pack. The other two smiled at him.

  “That’s pretty good,” said Connor, “is it true?”

  Wulfgar shook his head, “No. I was an orphan. I didn’t have any brothers or nephews.” He shrugged, “That’s just a story I read someplace.” He took out two more beers and passed them over the fire, then opened another for himself. He took a long draw. It was just as good as the first. He almost wished he could get as thirsty in this world as he did when he was alive - it would be worth it just to feel the quench from the brew.

  “Do you have any more?” asked Corwin.

  “Beer?”

  “Stories,” the dark man laughed.

  Wulfgar nodded.

  “One. This one is true.” He looked to his friends and smiled at their raised eyebrows. He sat up straight, took another long drink, and began to talk.

  “Growing up, I was friends with Paul. Paul's father was rich. Very rich. And since this was in Northern Virginia, to be very rich in comparison to everyone else took some money. Paul's father was a real estate developer. In addition to the large family homestead in Northern Virginia, Paul's father had acreage, lots and lots of acreage, out south of Winchester, in the Shenandoah valley.”

  “The land was pretty far out in nowhere, so we could go out there shooting. Except for twenty or thirty acres right at the front, the land was all woods, and that clearing boasted a two story farmhouse.”

  “Nobody lived in the house full time, but someone from Paul's clan was usually there on the weekends in the spring, summer or fall and in the winter during hunting seasons.”

  “There were a lot of rules in the house. Like, posted-on-signs rules. One was, don't fully close doors. He doesn't like it."

  “I asked Paul who he was. Paul just shrugged and smiled.”

  “The house itself was nothing special. For the most part. Just a regular two story white farmhouse built in the early 20th century. The front room, however, was different. It was a rectangular room; about ten feet deep and twenty wide. Unlike the rest of the house, it was made of log.”

  “That part of Virginia was first settled by colonists in the mid 18th century, and much of it was still being settled when the French-Indian wars were occurring. On the western frontier, the colonists established a fort.”

  “The log room was that fort.”

  “It was built around 1758. There were no windows in the room, only a front and back door. The front door now served as the entrance to the farmhouse. The back door entered into the house's kitchen. The back door remained permanently propped open.”

  “He doesn't like closed doors.”

  “At some point during those wars two things of note happened.”

  “The first, a young Virginia gentleman stayed at the fort while he surveyed the surrounding land. His name was Thomas Jefferson.”

  “The second, was a massacre.”

  “The story is, Indians allied with the French surrounded the fort one night and overwhelmed it. Given that the building was so small, it probably didn't take too many of them, but they were able to prevent the soldiers from getting out of either door. No militia survived.”

  “The theory is that he was in the militia, and that he doesn't like doors to be closed because they prevent his ready escape. It sounded like horse-shit to me, but it made for a good story to tell around the fireplace on a cold, December Virginia night.”

  “Paul and I were down there one weekend in the late fall. He was going to be out in the land to prepare his blinds for an upcoming season; whether bow or black-powder, I don't recall. I didn’t hunt, I was just going to keep him company and because I'd always enjoyed going up to the farm. I'd spent many a drunken weekend there with groups of friends, and never heard or seen anything that had served to blunt my teenage skepticism about ghosts or whatever.”

  “Just about every time we'd all gone up there, we'd gotten hammered in the fort; drinking until blind as teenagers tend to do. But even if someone passed out, they weren't left in the fort overnight. They were always taken into the great room or one of the bedrooms. And every time we'd gone up there, Paul had told us all stories about the house; such as the one time that the family had brought a psychic to the house to try to get a reading.”

  “She walked up the front stoop, put her hand on the front door of the fort, turned around and left without a word. She refused not only to enter the fort but to ever return to the property.”

  “So, Paul and I are up there one cold December night - the only people for miles around. Since we're the only ones in the house, and we're only there for one night, it made no sense to heat up the entire house. We would both sleep in the great-room. It was as large as the fort, but part of the more modern house. Along either wall were two large leather couches. Paul took one and I the other. He got a big fire going in the fireplace and we both curled up into our sleeping bags. I could see, in the flickering firelight across the room, Paul's breath as he exhaled.”

  "Shouldn't you close the door, I asked. To keep the heat in the room?"

  “He just smiled his shit-eating grin.”

  "He doesn't like closed doors."

  “I snorted and tried to go to sleep. After a short while however, I heard the distinct sound of a series of footfalls from upstairs. Up the stairs to the second floor of the supposedly otherwise empty house. I looked over to Paul, to make sure that he hadn't snuck out to try to pull something on me.”

  “His teeth gleamed across the room at me, an I told you so look in his eyes.”

  “The boots continued to pound across the second story then stopped. A door slammed.”

  “Paul chuckled.”

  "I closed one of the doors up there earlier. He doesn't like that."

  “Paul laughed again lightly then rolled over.”

  “Paul went to sleep.”

  “I didn't.”

  Wulfgar grinned and Connor sat back and smiled.

  Corwin leaned forward, “That’s not really true. It’s just another story.”

  Wulfgar shrugged, “I promise you. It happened exactly like that. I’m not saying it was a ghost, but I don’t know what it was.”

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” asked Connor.

  “Absolutely,” grinned Wulfgar.

  “Really?” asked Corwin skeptically.

  “Of course,” continued Wulfgar. “After all, we’re in a world where dragons and demons exist, why not ghosts?” He laughed.

  “I mean, do you believe in ghosts outside of the Omegaverse,” laughed Connor.

  Wulfgar shrugged and smiled.

  “We also have another tradition,” said Connor, finishing his beer. “We sing around the campfire in Germany.” He sat up straight as Corwin and Wulfgar watched. Their jaws dropped as Connor began singing. It seemed that Bono’s voice sprang from Connor’s throat. He sang Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen. The two listeners sat transfixed through the song. When Connor ended, he smiled and sat back.

  “Holy shit,” whispered Wulfgar. “That was amazing.” He leaned forward
, “How did you learn to sing like that?”

  Connor smiled, “It’s a Bard or Ranger skill. Mimicry. It’s mainly used for hunting,” he shrugged, “you know, making mating calls to attract game. Stuff like that. “ He smiled, “But you can make pretty much any sound that you’ve heard if you have the skill.”

  Wulfgar nodded, thinking. That was an awesome skill. He looked to the ranger with a new level of respect.

  “Do you take requests?” asked Corwin.

  Connor nodded, “Sure. But I didn’t listen to a lot of new, popular music, so the songs I know are pretty old. Also,” Connor laughed loudly, “I can do a lot of voices, but don’t ask me to do Sam Cooke or Freddie Mercury. Maybe when I get to level fifty I’ll be able to sing that well.”

  Wulfgar shrugged, “That Bono was pretty damn good.”

  Connor nodded thanks.

  They listened to Connor sing a few more songs in different voices, all eerily like their earthly counterparts. After Connor stopped, Wulfgar passed around the last three beers in his pack and they sat quietly for several minutes, enjoying the evening.

  “Hey,” said Corwin suddenly, “let’s try something.” He reached into his inventory and pulled out the gift from Wulfgar. The tarot cards. He stood and moved to Wulfgar’s side of the fire. As he sat, he began shuffling the cards. He handed the stack to Wulfgar.

  “Before you do anything. Think of a question that you want answered. Be very specific.”

  Wulfgar nodded, ready.

  “Shuffle them.”

  “How much?”

  Corwin shrugged, “As much as you feel they need. It’s your reading. You kind of have to lead the decisions.”

  Wulfgar began shuffling. After a time, he looked up to Corwin.

  “OK. If you’re done shuffling, cut the deck.”

  Wulfgar nodded, and split the tarot into three equal sized stacks, then recombined them in a random order back into a single deck. He handed the deck back to Corwin’s outstretched hand.

  Corwin spread the cards on the ground, face down. He looked up at Wulfgar.