The Bone Tree

by Christopher Fulbright

  We sat still for a moment, not really eager to play the game.

  Bobby nodded and that seemed to snap our spell of remembrance. We both ate some more cookies, and he leaned down to reset Combat and choose the jet fighter mode, which I totally sucked at. I punched him in the arm, and he playfully threatened to kick my lame ankle. We had just changed controllers to play Breakout when the doorbell rang and both of us looked to the clock. 5:36. Ms. Nolan was here.

  I hobbled to the door and opened it for her.

  “My word, Kevin!” she said. “What’s happened to your foot?”

  “Ahh,” I said. “Just tripped.”

  Bobby came up past me through the doorway. “Hi Momma.”

  She pulled him into her arms. At twelve years old, he was almost as tall as she was. She hugged him tight, closed her eyes, and the expression on her face was one of pure joy. Seemed like she felt about him the way I felt about my mom. Like a hug or a smile from her boy was all she needed to erase the meanness of life for a while.

  “Thank the Lord I’m home, Bobby.” She let him go and smiled, and ruffled his hair like my mom did, like that was something all moms just kind of did to their boys. My mom came into the entryway and saw her.

  “Marian,” my mom said. “How was your day?” She came into the entryway wiping her hands clean on a dishrag, and they shook.

  “Oh,” she waved a hand in the air to dismiss the whole thing. “It’s all better now. That’s all that matters. The good Lord has blessed me with a job and a son. And with you, too. Thanks so much for spoiling him.” She pulled a cookie out of his hand, and meant the comment in a good-natured way. Her thanks were sincere, sometimes so sincere her eyes filled up with tears, and Mom would give Bobby’s momma a hug. I knew it was hard with Bobby’s dad being gone. I guess my mom was sensitive to that. She kind of picked up the vibe when days were rougher on Bobby’s momma than usual. And she loved Bobby, too.

  “Thank you so much, Miss Karen. God bless you.”

  “You too, Marian. Have a good night.”

  “Let’s go, Son,” Ms. Nolan said, and ushered him out the door.

  “Wait, Mom!” Bobby ran and grabbed his bag with homework that was lying on our couch, then headed out the door. “See ya tomorrow, Kevin.”

  “See ya, Bobby.”

  “Bye, Bobby,” my mom said, and closed the door.

  I started to make my way back to the TV to play some Atari.

  “Homework, young man?” Mom said.

  “Yeah.” Defeated.

  “Better get it done before Dad gets home, so you can watch your Starbuck show tonight after supper.”

  “Yes, Mom.” I dug out my homework from my own book bag. “And it’s Battlestar Galactica. Starbuck is just a character. He’s a Colonial Viper pilot. The show is called Battlestar Galactica.”

  “Okay, honey. Your father will be home soon. Get your homework done.”

  And so ended one of the most eventful days that would happen for the next week or so, until Tom Plecker showed up again at the tree house, this time with some more disturbing news.

  CHAPTER 4

  It was new comic day at the drugstore, so Bobby and I crawled under the playground fence and ran to the corner at lunchtime, pooling our change for issues of Iron Man, Werewolf by Night, The Defenders, Master of Kung Fu, Star Wars, and Batman. We managed to get almost everything we wanted and sneak back before the bell rang to go back in. They also had new issues of Starlog and Fantastic Films, but I’d have to mow the lawn and ask Dad for my allowance this weekend before I could afford them.

  The bus rolled down dusty old Greathouse Road. Bobby sat in the seat across from me, the shadows of the passing branches of trees flickering over his features. The bus stopped in front of my house and we got off, running into the house to drop off our bags and let Mom know we were headed down to the creek.

  Bobby grabbed the bag of comics and we raced down the road, thumping across the plank bridge, and then dashing down to the base of our tree. We climbed the ladder and were laughing, heckling each other about who was faster, when Bobby made it up into the tree house first and gave a startled yell when he came up onto the main platform.

  “What is it?” I asked, coming up—curious but cautious—behind him.

  I poked my head up over the tree house deck and there, sitting in the corner, was Tom Plecker. He’d gotten off the bus just a few minutes ahead of us, and I guess he came here first. Bobby looked at him with a little bit of scorn. We’d been “sort-of” friends with him since the incident in the woods with the shadow man and the Bone Tree. Still, that didn’t make our tree house that we had built and shared for the past year suddenly his property, too. Hey, if he wanted to ask, that was cool, but if he just wanted to show up, well, that didn’t rub either one of us the right way.

  “What are you doin’ here?” Bobby snapped at him.

  And Tom’s eyes got huge all of a sudden, like he hadn’t realized this wasn’t okay. Tears welled up and filled his eyes, then he started to sniffle, and I thought, Oh man, Bobby why’d ya have to be so mean, even though I was thinking the same thing when he said it.

  “Ahh, shoot,” Bobby said, his heart softening. He plopped down cross-legged, and I came up and sat down too, on the other side of Tom. Bobby went through the bag of comics and divvied them up between us. He and I picked two each, and then we gave Tom a copy of The Defenders. He really seemed to appreciate that. He hung out with us then for a while. That’s all we said, and we lounged on the old carpeting and pillows, munching butterscotch and trading all the comics back and forth until we were done reading.

  Then, Tom shifted a little, couldn’t seem to get comfortable. Something was bothering him. That much I knew just from looking at him.

  “Having problems getting home again?” I said.

  Bobby looked expectant. I wondered if he was going to volunteer to walk him home again through the woods behind the cemetery.

  “We had some, uh...weird stuff happen the other night.” His voice was uncertain. Small and meek, like he knew we wouldn’t believe him.

  “What kind of weird stuff?” Bobby said.

  “I don’t know if you guys will believe this, but...I know what I saw.”

  “Hey,” I said, “we’re the guys who ran like bats out of hell away from that...thing in the woods remember? And the tree?”

  “The Bone Tree,” Bobby put in.

  “Yeah,” I told Tom and patted him on the shoulder. “We’ll believe you.”

  Tom still had some trouble figuring out where to start, so he just came out with it. “There’s ghosts at my window at night,” he said. “Scary, mean, ugly ghosts.”

  Bobby blinked.

  “Ghosts?” I said.

  “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  His eyes suddenly filled with tears. “Scary ghosts! They come up to my window in the middle of the night...they tap on the glass until I wake up, and I keep my eyes closed really tight, but then I hear them saying my name; even though I turn over they won’t go away. And when I cry out for my parents they never hear me, and I hear more ghosts walking in the hallways, like they’re coming in the house too...it’s...it’s...” And then he started crying. Hard. His fear had resurfaced and he let it all go.

  Bobby looked down at the comics on the floor between his legs.

  I did my best to comfort Tom, and kind of shot a curious look at Bobby. He was acting weird all of a sudden. Maybe it was all the talk about ghosts that got him down, with his dad having passed away. Maybe he’d been thinking about it some lately, and it got to bothering him. That must have been it, because last time Tom had been upset, Bobby had been right there with me, comforting him. And then led the charge to escort Tom home, brave as a knight. Now he’d gotten all distant.

  “It’s okay,” I said, patting Tom on the shoulder. “It’s okay, man. There’s no ghosts here right now.”

  Tom looked up at us, his eyes sunken as if the
eyeballs had withered just a bit like three-day old grapes, and the eyeholes of his skull were filled with bruised skin. It looked like he hadn’t slept since we’d seen him up here at the tree house that long week ago. It was suddenly very easy to imagine what Tom’s skull would look like without any flesh. I shook off that unpleasant thought.

  “Jeez,” Bobby said, emerging from his mood. After another moment, his true colors were shining through as he set aside whatever was going on in his own head to offer Tom some support.

  Bobby came over and put his hand on Tom’s other shoulder. Tom suddenly collapsed against Bobby’s chest. He wailed for a while. Long and loud. The wailing echoed from the tree house beneath the canopy of trees. Birds cried out in dismay. The trees ruffled their branches in a discontented wind. Bobby looked up at me as if to say, what the heck? But he didn’t say it, and awkwardly patted Tom on the back until he pulled himself together with an armful of sniffles wiped on his sleeve.

  Tom still looked miserable, but he said he was sorry, he felt better now.

  “Tom,” Bobby said, “what’s going on?”

  “Last night was the worst,” he said. “I was just lying there, trying to get some sleep, but I haven’t been sleepin’ good since the shadow man chased us home...”

  * * *

  Tommy lay very still atop the bed in his small room, eyes staring up at the ceiling, quiet as he could be. A small fan in the corner of the room hummed. He could see the model battleships in shadow atop his dresser, books stacked crooked in his bookshelf. A pile of dirty clothes hunched like a dark lurker upon the floor near the bottom of the bed. The closet stood open a crack.

  He could see a small sliver of moon through the window next to his bed. Below the night skies, the tree line split the violet night from the usual pitch black of the forest. And yet tonight, the forest was not completely dark. Something, deep in the heart of a grove, was glowing.

  It looked like a tree. A particular tree.

  The Bone Tree.

  Tommy looked closer. He moved very carefully. He risked his dad coming into the room, angry and drunk, and beating his ass if he heard the bedsprings creak. But—what the hell was happening out there?

  He squinted his eyes, tried to focus in. Somewhere he had a spy telescope that he’d ordered out of the back of an old comic book, but God only knew where that thing was.

  Beyond the sable forest, the Bone Tree shined a stark white. It was like the glowing skeleton of some hideous thing that never moved.

  Tommy turned over slowly on the mattress, a struggle between fear of his father, and growing curiosity and fear of the unknown. He moved, pushed lightly with his arm.

  A spring creaked.

  Tom sucked in his breath. He closed his eyes. Listened.

  He could hear the dull monotone of a news program droning away on the TV. Sometimes Dad got so drunk he just fell asleep on the couch, sitting up. If he’d passed out, you couldn’t wake him up with a rock to the head.

  As Tom was poised in silent expectation, he started to lose his balance and had to catch himself with his second hand.

  A big squeak and a bounce. His heart seized for a moment. He stared at the back of the door to his room. His ears were like bionic ears, listening for the slightest stir anywhere in the house to reveal his dad’s wakeful state. He imagined the sound of the bionics working, the increased sensitivity of his ear. He imagined he could hear the sound of his father’s drunken slumber on the couch, the sound of his mother’s fitful dreams in the bedroom upstairs.

  Propped on one arm, Tom peered again out the window.

  A lone figure was walking toward the house.

  At the edge of the clearing that stretched from the bottom of his window to the edge of the forest, one dark shambler came across the grassy plain. Headed right for their house. Limping, leaning to one side, a slight kink to its neck.

  Tom could scarcely do anything but watch. His heart went crazy. His wide eyes fixed on the horrific sight just beyond the glass. Even if he doubted that it truly existed—and he did, it must be a dream—he could see the grasses lay down before it, could see the path by which it traveled.

  Soon it reached the edge of the mowed lawn. It wasn’t just nearing the house. It was coming right for his window.

  Now Tom moved. He flipped over in bed. He didn’t care if his dad heard him and came down the hall. He hoped his dad came down the hall. In fact, he would have cried out for Mom or Dad or anyone who’d respond if only his vocal chords would work, if only they would respond to his fear with anything other than a debilitating lump that tasted bad and was sore as hell.

  His ears were pricked. He suddenly didn’t want bionic ears, because now he thought he could hear the swish—swish—swish of the figure’s slow, shambling steps over the grass.

  And then the steps stopped.

  Tom closed his eyes tight. Pulled the covers up close to his neck and around his ears.

  Tic...tic...tic...

  No. He didn’t hear that.

  Tic.

  Tic.

  Tic.

  Tapping on the window.

  He began to cry. Tears pushed out between his tightly closed lids, and he reached up to wipe the tears away. In so doing he blinked, and accidentally opened his eyes.

  On his floor, the square of the window shone with the phantom rays of the waning moon. And in the middle of the window was a black, faintly misshapen silhouette. Tom knew something stood just outside his window. And he watched, petrified, as its silhouette raised one bony hand from which hung ragged strips of something, and tapped...

  Tic.

  Tic.

  Tic.

  Tom managed to do two things: wet himself, and scream.

  * * *

  Bobby and I stared at Tom in the afternoon rays of golden sun. Shade dappled the tree house, and warmth and light danced with shadow in our quiet moments together, just the three of us.

  “What happened then?” I asked.

  “My dad was out cold on the couch,” Tom said. He sniffled once more and wiped snot on his sleeve. “My mom came downstairs.”

  Bobby asked, “Did she see it?”

  Tom shook his head.

  “No, it was gone by the time she came to my room and turned on the light.”

  “Man,” Bobby said.

  “Yeah,” Tom said.

  We were quiet for a minute. We listened to the wind high in the trees. A strong gust came through. It carried the fresh green scent of blooming foliage and the damp scent of the rain-wet creek bed. Birds fluttered by in a small group. The branches of the tree house swayed the slightest bit—just enough to give our stomachs a light zazz and flip.

  “Later that night, I heard them in the house.” Tom was staring down at his dirty palms. “I heard footsteps in the hallway. And...”

  We were quiet. Even the wind hushed.

  “...laughing, like evil whispers. I heard them laughing.”

  CHAPTER 5

  That Saturday Ms. Nolan invited me down for supper and to stay the night with Bobby. My mom said that’d be great. I guess it was some kind of arrangement they had. My mom knew that Ms. Nolan and Bobby didn’t have much money, and she never charged Ms. Nolan for watching Bobby or anything, but every couple of weeks Ms. Nolan would have me over for a night, to kind of give my mom and dad some time to be alone, or go out, or whatever.

  Bobby’s dad, before he died, had been working at the grain mill and studying to be a Baptist preacher. He had hoped to work in a small church out here in the country, and Bobby’s momma had taken on a lot of that herself, getting a job as an orderly at Baylor Medical in Waxahachie to help pay for his classes. I didn’t remember much about Mr. Nolan. I met him a few times years before, when me and Bobby would play together, but it was in passing because he was always working or studying, so mostly I spent time with Bobby and his momma.

  She was a “strong believer in Christ,” and she liked to talk about Jesus a lot. My parents weren’t Christians, so it was all n
ews to me that someone had come and died for my sins so I could go to heaven. It was a little scary, too. Sometimes, when I went to Sunday school with Bobby and the teacher talked about Jesus dying on the cross, they gave us pictures out of coloring books of him crucified. Bobby always used red and drew rivulets of blood running down his arms and side. Then he’d nudge me with a twisted little smile. I don’t know if it was the morbidity of it all that struck me deep inside, or if it was the spirit of God digging around in me for something worth saving. But if Sunday school was cryptic, the worship service that came after was insane. The church was mostly black folks, and they had a choir that could shake the walls, and when the music was going everybody was up on their feet, hands in the air and clapping like it was the best dadgum thing to happen in a century. Then the preacher, Pastor James, came out yelling and shaking his Bible, and he’d pray to Jesus like they were having a real hell of a conversation. The congregation said “Amens” and lifted their hands, and when it was all done there were lots of hugs, and on my way out the door, Pastor James would pat me on the shoulder with a smile, like they’d done it all for me.

  I admit being a little scared of church, with just a vague notion of what it was all about. Ms. Nolan was plenty eager to explain it to me. Even though my parents were a little skeptical, I suppose they figured it couldn’t hurt. So anyway, for those couple years after Bobby’s dad died, I’d eat supper and stay over on Friday or Saturday nights, and sometimes I’d ask her questions about Jesus.

  She made a mean supper, Ms. Nolan did. And she really did it up fancy when I came over. Fried chicken, potato salad, purple hull peas with sausage, and then for dessert she’d make her special recipe cinnamon pear pie or peach coffee cake.

  That Saturday was no exception. She did it up right, and me and Bobby hung around in the kitchen, playing War with cards at the table and enjoying the smells of all that food cooking away. Ms. Nolan listened to the preachers on the radio usually, but on weekend nights she’d turn it on the local NPR station that played old time radio from the ’30s and ’40s: The Shadow, or Inner Sanctum, or The Green Hornet or The Whistler. We all got quiet and listened, doing our thing—Ms. Nolan cooking and us playing cards. That night it was an episode of The Shadow.