Ghosts in the Graveyard

              The last shimmer of sun was fading over the suburban Chicago neighborhood. Along with the subtle first hints of the changing season, early September brought the impending dread children have about the coming of a new school year and the loss of their summer freedom. Henry Drummond and a band of soon-to-be 4th graders gathered in front of his best friend Marty’s house, just two streets away from his own home on Balmoral Avenue.

              “I know what we can do,” Marty boomed, “Let’s play Ghosts in the Graveyard! Meet back here in ten minutes.”

              The group was excited to play the game that brought them into the eerie world of their neighborhood in darkness one last time before school started. In just a few days The Mothers would forbid such activities on a weeknight, so the knot of children scattered like startled crows back to their homes to fetch a flashlight and beg permission to stay out just a little bit later than usual.

              Henry charged through the kitchen’s screen door and headed straight for the junk drawer, rummaging for a fresh pair of D batteries for his Cub Scout flashlight. “Hey Mom,” he hollered, “Everybody’s playing Ghosts in the Graveyard. Can I play? Mom? Dad? Anybody home?”

              Joe, Henry’s 12 year old brother entered the kitchen, elbow deep in a bag of Fritos. “They’re across the street at the Millers.”

              “Ok, hey, you wanna play Ghosts in the Graveyard with us?”

              Joe made a face as though he had just gotten a whiff of expired milk. “With little 4th graders? Are you kidding?”

              Henry rolled his eyes. “Oh, I yeah, I forgot, you’re a big 8th grader now.”

              “You better not forget it. Ask Paul if you can go. He’s in charge.”

              “Fine.” Henry stomped down the hall to Paul’s bedroom and banged on the door with all his might, trying to be heard over Cheap Trick’s new album blasting on the stereo, to no avail. Henry had been warned not to enter his oldest brother’s sacred space without knocking, a threat that he took seriously, so he kicked the door in a final attempt to be heard.

              “What?” Paul shouted and yanked the door open. “What do you want, Shrimp?”

              “Joe says you’re in charge. I’m going to play Ghosts in the Graveyard over by Marty’s house.”

              “Cool.”

              “Ok bye.” Henry turned to leave.

              “Hey Shrimp,” Paul called after him. “Stay outta Fat John’s yard. That guy’s messed up.”

              “What do you mean?”

              “I’ve heard some weird shit goes on in his house. You’re too young to understand. Just stay out, ok?”

              “Yeah, I guess.” Henry bolted down the hallway.

              “I mean it, Shrimp!”

              Annoyed at being called Shrimp, Henry answered, “Ok, ok, I heard you,” as the screen door slammed behind him.

              Marty, always the leader, decided that he himself should be the ghost for the first round. The boundaries and rules of the game were set, and after a lively hunt, Henry was declared the victor, and therefore the ghost for round two.

Pleased with himself, Henry set out to hide. The group chanted with their eyes shut tight as Henry crossed the street, “One o’clock, two o’clock, three o’clock…”

              Henry raced toward the Thomas’s house since there were lots of trees and bushes in their yard and he knew they were nice people who wouldn’t mind children running around.

              “Four o’clock, five o’clock, six o’clock…”

              “But this is the first place they’ll look,” he whispered to himself, and abruptly changed course and headed for Fat John’s house, which was kitty corner from Marty’s house. “Paul’s not the boss of me.”

              “Seven o’clock, eight o’clock, nine o’clock…”

              Henry ran silently into John’s back yard and settled himself behind an ancient oak. A light through John’s dinette window caught his eye, and Henry could plainly see Fat John pacing back and forth in the kitchen.

              “Ten o’clock, eleven o’clock, twelve o’clock.”

                Still irked about being treated like a baby and being called Shrimp, Henry tiptoed up to the window to get a better look. There he was, still pacing, talking, and waving his hands, red in the face and clearly upset. Henry looked all the way to one side of the room to see who John was talking to, but there was no one else there. When he turned his head back, John was gone.

“Midnight! Midnight! I hope I don’t find a ghost tonight!”

Henry could hear his friends’ footfalls on the pavement and their laughter, and decided he’d better get back to his hiding place. Paul was right – this was some weird shit.

He was just about to head back to the tree when he heard the squeak of a screen door and heavy breathing behind him.

“Who’s out there?” growled a voice in the dark, angry but not loud.

Terrified, and temporarily blinded by the bright lights of the kitchen, Henry ran right into Fat John’s ample belly with a thud.

“Stay outta my yard, kid!” the gravelly voice threatened.

Henry looked up and froze for a half a second, and then ran around to the side of John’s house, and back to the safety of the streetlights as fast his Keds could carry him.

“What are you doing, Henry?” Marty called. You’re supposed to be hiding!”

“Umm…umm… I think I saw a skunk! It was a big one!”

              “Now what?” said Marty, annoyed at the interruption of the game.

              “Go ahead and pick another ghost. It’s ok,” offered Henry, still trembling. “I gotta go home now.”

*****

              Halloween fell on a Tuesday that year, so trick-or-treating began as soon as school let out, to leave time in the evening to do homework. Sister Mary James was not a fan of the holiday, citing it as the Devil’s Day, so a worksheet of long division and the composition of ten spelling sentences awaited Henry when candy-gathering was over. Henry, Marty, and their friends Jimmy and Patrick, dressed as Luke Skywalker, Darth Vader, a pirate, and a hobo respectively, were pronounced old enough to go out on their own by their parents, and gathered at Henry’s house promptly at 4:00.

              “Ok, here’s the plan,” instructed Marty, “We’ll do both sides of Balmoral and Catherine. We can empty our bags at my house and finish with Summerdale and Berwyn. Then we’ll go back to my house and sort out our candy. My mom says she’ll make grilled cheeses for everyone when we get back.”

              “Let’s get started!”

              Everything went according to plan, and after dropping off their candy, the boys eagerly continued on to the second leg of their route. As they neared Fat John’s house, though, Henry’s stomach flipped.

              “You OK?” asked Marty.

              “Yeah,” answered Henry, “I’m fine.”

              Another group of trick-or-treaters, all girls, were just leaving Fat John’s as the boys approached.

              “He’s wearing that clown costume again,” Darleen, a schoolmate dressed as Princess Leah, warned the boys.

              “He’s soooo weird!” said Mary Ann, wearing the same cat costume she wore every year. All the girls nodded in agreement. “But he gives full size Hershey bars, so…”

              “So what are we waiting for!” said Marty.

              Henry silently gulped as they rang the doorbell, and he suddenly wished he had opted for a costume with a mask. “Trick-or-Treat!” they all shouted as John pulled the door open.

              “Hello boys,” John, aka Pogo the Clown, greeted them.

              Henry looked down as he opened the pillowcase he used as a candy bag.

              “Well,” John said to Henry, “If it isn’t the ghost from the graveyard. Sorry I scared you that night. I thought you were a prowler until I saw the rest of you kids out front.”

              Henry finally got up the courage to look him in the eye. The clown make up was all pointy around the edges of his eyes and mouth, not rounded like Bozo, the only other clown Henry had ever seen. It made John look creepy like his brother Paul had said.

              “I wasn’t scared,” answered Henry, “I thought I saw a skunk, that’s all.”

              John nodded. “You boys have fun.” The boys turned to leave. “Oh, hey… Luke Skywalker…”

              “Yeah?” answered Henry.

              “You have an older brother, right?”

              “Yeah. Two.”

              “The oldest one…”

              “Paul?”

              “Yeah, that one. Does he need a job? I’m putting together a crew to do some construction work. Just on the weekends, part time. Do you think he’d be interested?”

              “Probably not. He works at the A&P on the weekends.”

              “You ask him anyway, OK? Maybe he has some friends who’d be interested in making a little extra spending money.”
              “Sure. I’ll ask him.”

              “Thank you,” called Henry, Patrick, and Jimmy as they continued to the next house.

              “Yeah, thanks, Mr. G.” said Marty as he ran to catch up to his friends.

*****

              It was just the second day of Christmas vacation, and already Henry was bored. It was a little too cold to play outside in the snow, and there were no cartoons on until tomorrow, Saturday. He sat at the breakfast table with Joe as his mother puttered around the kitchen urging him to eat his cereal before it got soggy.

              A frantic knock startled them, and Marty burst through the back door before anyone could get up. His boots were caked with snow, but it didn’t stop him from charging right in.

              “Marty!” Mrs. Drummond scolded, “For heaven’s sake, take off your boots!”

              Marty bent over and put his hands on his knees trying to catch his breath. “I ran all the way here… Mr. G’s house… people are dead…lots of people are dead…”

              Marty and Joe dropped their spoons.

              “What are you talking about Marty?” asked Mrs. Drummond, “Who’s Mr. G?”

              “Fat John… Mr. Gacy… The FBI guys are there now. A lot of them. And TV trucks and police cars…and…”

              “Are you sure, Marty? There must be some mistake. Mr. Gacy’s such a nice man. He’s the precinct captain, you know. He’s always helping people with their problems. Just last month I saw him…”

              “Of course I’m sure!” Marty interrupted, “It’s happening right outside my front window! The police are all over the place! I heard one guy say there might be thirty people in there. All dead! My mom can’t stop crying. She even threw up.”

              “No way,” cried Joe, “You’re such a liar!”

              “I swear!”

              “I collect there for my paper route,” continued Joe, “Mr. Gacy’s a nice guy. I’ve been in his house.” He looked up at his mother. “Lots of times. He’s got a picture with the President’s wife on his wall. He showed it to me.”

              “So?” spat Marty, still panting.

              “So he always gives me a big tip. And I never saw any dead bodies.”

              “Do you think they’re just laying around the living room? They’re in the basement, stupid,” said Marty, “in the crawlspace. At least that’s what one FBI man said.”

              Mrs. Drummond turned pale and sat down. “Oh my God. I need to call your father.”

              Just then the phone rang. “I’ll get it!” called Paul and raced into the kitchen to answer it. He looked around the room at their odd expressions.“What’s going on?”

              “I need to use the phone, Paul.”

              “Just a sec, Mom, I’m waiting for Janine to call.” He wiggled his eyebrows Groucho Marx style as he picked up the phone. “Hello? Oh, hi Dad, Mom was just… What? Jesus Christ. Yeah she’s right here,” He handed the phone to his mother. “Turn on the TV, channel 9. Hurry up.”

              Henry sat still, stunned into silence, his cereal becoming soggier and soggier.

*****

Summer finally returned to Chicago after a long, cold winter and spring, and once again the children came out to play. The now vacant lot across from Marty’s house on Summerdale Avenue was off limits to children, and most likely would be for years to come.

Henry came home at dusk one warm June evening and called, “Mom! Dad! Can I play Ghosts in the Graveyard with the guys?”

Mrs. Drummond clicked off the television and turned to her husband.

Mr. Drummond took a deep breath and shook his head. “No, son, no more Ghosts in the Graveyard. It’s time for you to come in.”