Playgroung of Lost Toys

by Exile

  I tried to open the window but it was stuck. I pressed my face against it and looked down. I could see all the way to the courtyard on the second floor, with its lemon tree, rose bushes, tulsi, and marigold plants that my grandmother watered without fail every evening. There might be a drought, the wind from the desert could blow hot and dry across the plains, and water rationed out to the rest of us, but the Goddess forbid that the plants should go thirsty.

  I hated those plants. Gran loved them more than she loved any of us. Sometimes, I used to sneak up to the second floor after dark and tear off a few leaves and, if I was feeling particularly wronged, a couple of flowers as well. I would crush them in my hand feeling triumphant, smelling the sweet smell of flowery death. Then I would steal back down, lock myself in the bathroom and wash my hands for a long time.

  A dark shape scurried across the floor and I yelped. Chaya glared at me out of her one good eye – the other had been poked out by a neighbour boy during a nasty fight we’d had – and said, “It’s just a rat.”

  “Just a rat?” I squeaked. “I hate rats! Let’s get out of here.”

  “Are you scared?” mocked Chaya.

  Thumpthumpthump. Chaya and I leapt. Several books had slid off a shelf and now lay on the floor in a grey, ragged heap. Somewhere, something scratched itself. A noxious smell stole into the attic – a mix of rotting fruit and open drains.

  “You’re right,” said Chaya. “I think we’d better leave.”

  Easier said than done. I ran to the door my grandmother had shut so firmly, and jiggled it. Nothing gave. I could picture the other side so clearly – the peeling blue paint of the door, the rusted iron bolt, the framed and garlanded picture of Krishna, the steps winding down to the relative safety of the courtyard with the plants and the lemon tree. I banged against the door in frustration and mounting panic.

  Chaya put her hands on her hips. “It’s no use trying that door,” she said. “We can’t break it down, and if we did, Gran would kill us. How about this door?”

  And that was how we got out of the attic. You see, there was another door at the opposite end of the room, narrow, almost invisible with dust. It was hardly ever used anymore, and led the wrong way, up instead of down, but anything was better than being locked up with the attic ghost. We dragged an old tin trunk to the door. I climbed on the trunk and Chaya climbed on my shoulders. She removed the iron chain from the hook at the top. Something wetly sniffed my neck and I screamed – then the door opened and we shot out to freedom and fresh air.

  The door banged shut behind us. We picked ourselves up and my breathing returned to normal. I rubbed the back of my neck; that had been too close. Another minute and I’d have felt teeth.

  “Isn’t this fun?” said Chaya.

  “What fun?” I grumbled, but despite myself, I was excited. We were in the upper courtyard, a forbidden place. A short, steep flight of steps in one corner led to the flat roof above.

  The roofs of all the houses in our crowded street were joined together, so it was possible for an agile person to jump from one house to the next. On our left lived a large and quarrelsome family that often took its disputes to my grandmother to resolve. On our right lived a cross old woman and her mad son. We knew he was mad because he occasionally emitted blood-curdling howls, and he never left the house. We called him Loony-boy.

  There was a time when my whole family used to spend winter afternoons in the upper courtyard of the house. The adults used to play cards and eat peanuts, while I read comics. Then one day a monkey bit my great-grandmother and she had to get six rabies shots. Not long after, a thief jumped onto our roof after climbing a water pipe in the quarrelsome family’s house, and made off with our shoes, slippers and blankets while we slept out in the open. It was now absolutely forbidden to come up here at all, let alone in the dark. I couldn’t even imagine the punishment for it.

  I circled the courtyard to make sure there were no monkeys or humans about.

  “Come on, silly. There’s no one here,” said Chaya. She ran up the stairs to the rooftop, her torn frock billowing behind her.

  I didn’t know what to be more afraid of, my grandmother’s wrath when she discovered how we had escaped, the ghost in the attic who must be disappointed that we got away, or the monkeys, bats and thieves who frequented the rooftops on our street. But I followed Chaya, determined not to show my unease.

  When I reached the rooftop, no one was in sight. The wind blew softly and a lone star peeped out from behind the clouds. The rooftop was small and empty, surrounded by a brick barrier. There was no place to hide.

  “Chaya!” I called, trying to keep the anxiety from my voice. The things of the dusk can smell your fear; they can hear it in your voice. If you’re frightened, it’s best not to let them know. So I sang a bit, a couple of lines from my favourite song: Uncle Moon, where do you go, when the sun slips into the sky; Uncle Moon, see you soon, day is coming, bye-bye. I skipped around, trying to look and feel happy, like I didn’t care I was alone in a place I wasn’t supposed to be.

  A weak voice wafted from the other side of the brick railing, “Here. I’m here.”

  I rushed over to the railing and peered down. Chaya was lying at the bottom of the rooftop stairs in the courtyard of the neighbouring house, her leg twisted under her.

  “What happened? Are you hurt?” I cried.

  “Not much,” said Chaya, straightening her leg out. “I leaned too far and toppled over. But I don’t think I can walk. You’ll have to come and get me.”

  My heart gave a lurch. This, of course, was the house where Loony-boy lived. “Can’t you somehow get yourself up the stairs to the roof?” I asked. “Then I could lean over and haul you up over the railing.”

  Chaya didn’t deign to respond. She gazed at me, her blank, beloved face giving no clue to what she was thinking. She was just a few metres from me, but it could have been the other end of the world. There was no way I was going to jump over the railing to Loony-boy’s house to rescue her, and she knew it. My knees shook. The darkness had deepened, and I wanted to be safe downstairs curled up with a book, my aunts arguing over which television program to watch, my grandfather playing chess with himself, and my great-grandmother chanting in the prayer house.

  “I’ll tell Gran what happened,” I said. “She’ll get you out. Or maybe I can go look for a rope in the attic and use that to pull you up.”

  At that moment we heard footsteps coming up from the neighbour’s attic. Chaya froze and I slunk low behind the railing. The door creaked open and a soft yellow light flooded the courtyard. Loony-boy stepped out into the light.

  My heart constricted as I remembered all the horrible stories about this house. According to one story, the old woman was haunted by a demon during her pregnancy, so her son was born all wrong in the head. Another story claimed he was an English professor who was driven to insanity when his wife and child died in a train accident. Still others said there was no madman at all, and it was the old woman herself who howled in the night.

  Chaya’s voice came sharp and clear, “Hello, Amar. You smell a bit. When did you last have a bath?”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Chaya never, ever tried to talk to grownups, even crazy ones. It just never worked. I peeked over the railing. Loony-boy stood below me, near Chaya. He had a smooth, round face and curly black hair. He would have looked like a child except that he was huge, taller than my grandfather and fatter than our milkman. He bent down and picked Chaya up by her injured leg. She gave a small scream.

  Before I knew what I was doing, I was over that railing and tumbling down the stairs to the courtyard as fast as my stubby legs could carry me. I skidded to a halt before Loony-boy and panted, “Give her back to me.”

  He cradled Chaya and gave me a blank stare. My heart thudded against my ribcage. I had never seen Loony-boy up close before. Chaya lay limply in his arms with her head turned towards me, and a crooked little smile on her face. Like she had known this would happen, had i
n fact planned it.

  “Give her back to me at once,” I shouted. “You’re hurting her.” I stretched out my arms, meaning to snatch her back.

  But Loony-boy stepped back, and his eyes grew big and wet. He clutched Chaya to his chest, raised his face to the sky, and roared. “AAWWHHAAHHAAAAWWA!” I put my hands over my ears to block the desolate sound. I should have run then, but I was rooted to the spot, terrified and fascinated.

  “AAWWHHAAHHAAAAWWA!” he roared again and then a more subdued, “Aaahhhhhaaahhhoooh?” He fell silent and we eyed each other.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Hooohhho?” whispered Loony-boy.

  “I’m sorry if I frightened you,” I said softly. “I just want my friend back.” I pointed to Chaya.

  Loony-boy did not step back but neither did he loosen his grip on Chaya. He just stood there with his head cocked to one side as if he was trying hard to understand something. And suddenly my fear of him vanished. I felt all his loss, his incomprehension. Here was someone even more in need of a friend than I.

  Footsteps creaked up the staircase to the courtyard and a querulous voice shouted, “Where have you got to now, you good-for-nothing hulk? Must I chase you everywhere? How many times have I told you not to come up here!”

  Loony-boy gulped and a look of fear crossed his face. He wrapped his arms around Chaya, hugging her to his chest.

  “Run!” hissed Chaya. “If that witch finds you here, you’re a goner for sure.”

  “But what about you?” I protested.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I’ll be safe with Amar.”

  How did she know Loony-boy’s name? I had no time to ask, for at that moment the door banged open. I raced up the stairs and vaulted over the roof, not even waiting to see what the old woman would do to Loony-boy – no, to Amar – and to Chaya. I ran down the stairs to our own attic and locked myself in. I lay panting on the floor, hoping the old woman hadn’t seen me, and praying the attic ghost wouldn’t eat me.

  Perhaps it had already eaten that evening, for it contented itself with pulling my hair and throwing away my slippers. In any other circumstance, that would have been enough to make me scream, but I was too far gone to care.

  My grandmother came for me a little later, asking if I’d learned my lesson. I could hardly form coherent words, but I must have satisfied her, for I was allowed to leave the attic and rejoin the adults downstairs.

  I sneaked up to the roof whenever I could in the months that followed. I heard Amar now and then, emitting his sad, peculiar noises. But I never saw Chaya again. I missed her with an ache that grew sharper with time, as I understood she was not coming back – had never intended to come back.

  Even Amar’s noises went away after a while – people said that he had died and been carted away to a special morgue reserved for mad dead people.

  But I know otherwise. I know that somewhere in that ancient house besides ours, Chaya holds Amar’s hand and leads him to adventures in fantastic worlds, like she led me.

  THE GHOST RATTLE

  Nathan Adler

  Clay Cutter, Dare Theremin, and Tyler Kendrars were bored. It was Cutter who first came up with the idea.

  “I heard this story about an old Indian burial ground out by Ghost Lake,” Clay said. “This woman went out there and took all these pictures – and when she got the film developed – there were these ghostly figures in all the photos.”

  “That’s just an urban legend,” Tyler said over the noise of the little pen-motor. “There isn’t even a graveyard out there.” The sewing needle rose and fell as it punctured Theremin’s flesh, the salvaged toy motor buzzing as it delivered blue ink into the lower layers of the epidermis. There wasn’t anywhere to get a tattoo in town, so they made their own; something to pass the time.

  “There is one out on the reserve,” Clay said.

  “There’s hardly anyone out there this time of year,” Theremin said, wincing as the needle went in. “We should check it out.”

  “I don’t know.” Tyler wiped away blood welling up on Theremin’s shoulder blade, so he could see the image as he created it.

  “It isn’t just any graveyard – it’s an Indian burial ground,” Theremin pointed out.

  “So?” Tyler asked, pulling the blue latex gloves tighter. “Haven’t you seen any horror movies? Poltergeist? Pet Sematary? The Amityville Horror?”

  “How does it look?” Theremin asked, trying to look over his shoulder.

  “It looks like shit,” Tyler said, smiling at his handiwork.

  “How hard could it be to draw a skull?” Theremin asked. “You draw two eye cavities, a hole for the nose, and some grinning teeth.”

  When the tattoo was finished, they hopped on their skidoos and took off for the ice road. Local folks used the frozen surface of the lake in the winter because it was a more direct route than the road, which weaved its way through multiple obstacles – swamps, rivers, and rocky promontories.

  The shortest distance between two points is a straight line.

  Most likely this excursion would turn out to be a pointless trek, but it was as good an excuse as any for an adventure. The skidoo tracks they followed led them past an area that was clearly still being used as a burial ground. Newer marble headstones and wooden crosses mixed together with older structures made of wood, mausoleums standing on stilts, like little houses for the dead held up by scaffolding.

  They left their skidoos, engines cooling like silenced chainsaws. A few crows cawed to each other in the stark canopy overhead. Some of the branches held human-shaped bundles, like Egyptian mummies wrapped in leather shrouds. Maybe it was the desiccated meat the birds were after, and the boys were intruding upon the meal. The trees creaked, sounding like voices, as if complaining of the burden they carried in their arms, or maybe it was the dead themselves that spoke.

  “Whoa,” Tyler whispered, “This place is creepy.”

  “Of course it’s creepy,” Clay said, also keeping his voice hushed. “It’s a graveyard.”

  They spread out, picking their way through the cemetery, examining older wooden structures, and avoiding the newer dead; those with names and dates inscribed on polished stone. The platforms only had the occasional pictograph or clan symbol carved into lumber, but age could be assessed by the level of disrepair. Some had clearly been maintained; others had long since fallen into ruin. Many of the little houses held pouches, bowls, dolls, and other trinkets adorning them like decorations, or offerings for the departed.

  Tyler wandered further into the darkness of the trees, picking his way across the pitted ground. He tripped, stepping into a cavity where a coffin had collapsed under ground, leaving behind a depression. The marker for the grave had long since mouldered away.

  “An arrowhead!” he heard Cutter exclaim, as he sat cradling his twisted ankle, his eyes now level with a smaller mausoleum, where an ancient and faded toy rattle rested on a ledge beneath the overhang of the pointed roof. Tyler made out a racing stripe of red paint, and some faded blue stars. He picked up the rattle and gave it a few shakes, listening to the sound of the beads shifting around inside, like waves lapping rhythmically against the shore of Ghost Lake.

  Tyler smiled, charmed by the discovery. He collected old children’s toys and noisemakers to use as supporting instruments – they were perfect on background tracks, looping to create distinctive beats. Tyler slipped the rattle into his pocket, and went to check on the others.

  “You could use that to shave!” Theremin was saying.

  “Not unless I want to slice my face apart,” Cutter replied, standing up. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. This place is starting to give me the creeps.”

  “Ooh, now look who’s scared,” Tyler sneered, and Theremin snickered.

  “It’s supposed to be creepy; it’s a burial ground. Besides, why do I want to hang out in a cemetery all day? There’s plenty of time for that later – like when I’m dead.”

  They trudged silently back to
the trail and mounted their skidoos. Now familiar with the route, they made quicker progress and parted halfway back to reach their separate homes.

  Tyler Kendrars met his friends on the path the next day. They trudged lethargically to their Monday morning classes, snow crunching beneath their boots.

  “Can I have a puff?” Theremin asked Cutter, holding out his hand. They always shared a smoke when one of them was out.

  “I’m not smoking, retard,” Cutter said, pretending to inhale from a nonexistent cigarette, then exhaling a breath visible in the cold air. Cutter and Tyler laughed. “I ran out last night.”

  “Oh,” Theremin said. “I thought I smelled smoke.”

  A gale swept through the trees and set the branches to clacking; a drainage ditch somewhere gave off a haunting howl. Tyler tilted his head – he heard the sound of a baby crying. Wailing off in the trees somewhere.

  “Do you hear something?” Tyler asked the others.

  “You mean that snarling sound?” Cutter asked. “It’s probably just some animal out in the woods.”

  “No. Not snarling,” Tyler said. “It sounds like a baby.”

  “Oh,” Cutter said. “It’s just the wind, ya dumbass.” Theremin and Cutter laughed.

  “No. Not the wind.” Tyler shook his head, looking into the trees to either side. “I mean something else.”

  Theremin and Cutter shrugged and Tyler took off into the trees. Weeenhh. Weeenh. Weeenh. Weeenh. The baby cried rhythmically, pausing only between breaths for the next wail. Tyler imagined it had been abandoned in the woods somewhere, left to die, or had maybe somehow fallen off the back of a snowmobile or toboggan. The parents would be frantic when they realized their baby was missing.

  “Seriously, you guys! You don’t hear it?” Tyler called to his friends, who had continued walking. He only heard their snickers and lame jokes in response. How could they not hear the baby? It was in the distance somewhere, but clearly audible. Waaanhh. Waaanhh. Waaanh. The baby cried. Louder now. Unmistakable. Weeeenh. Weeeenh. Weeeenh. Quieter now as the wind blew, stealing the sound, stretching it.