Summer Ghost Story

        August 23, 1964. James, Christopher, Stephen, and Marten sat along the walls of the old tree house built by the boys and their fathers five years before, sweating in the enclosed wooden box under the late summer sun.  The four twelve-year-olds were trying to enjoy their last bit of summer vacation before the start of school in early September. The thought of beginning seventh grade loomed over the juveniles like a storm cloud on a sunny day of fun.

             The anxieties of becoming a teenager and growing up sat in the mind of each of the four children, all best friends since kindergarten. Calling themselves The Patrollers, the children (with the exception of Christopher) had begged their fathers for months to help them construct the elevated cabin as a sanctuary away from adults and bullies. Located in the woods that grew between the houses of the Patrollers, “Fort Mischief” as they called the treehouse was a crude resemblance of a wooden house with a rope ladder that lead to a trap door situated in the corner of the floor that rested ten feet above the ground.

             At only ten feet by twelve, the treehouse had been a haven for the boys. Many games of war had been played at the Ft. Mischief, inspired by the stories their fathers had told them of the European and Pacific Campaigns, in addition to the boardgames stacked in decaying boxes next to milkcrates full of comic books filled with stories of vampires and monsters chasing damsels in distress before the heroic male would save the day in the crook of time. Small windows had been sawed into each of the walls to allow sunlight into the room, and there was even a doorway leading to a tiny balcony for the boys to sit outside on, resting on wooden crates to relax.

             A row of rolled up sleeping bags were lined against the wall next to the trap door. A couple of magazines the boys had secretly become owners of lay beneath the milkcrates full of graphic novels. The magazines contained images of naked women that the boys would pull them out only in the most sacred of times, when there was no chance of anyone coming by to hear them giggling at the pictures, all of them too shy to admit that the women in the magazines made them feel a funny way. They would soon learn that the secret feeling was attraction in coming years. Crushed against the wall by one of the milkcrates was an almost full pack of cigarettes and a box of matches.

             Marten had been able to swipe the pack from his big brother’s carton last time the older sibling had visited home on leave from the Air Force. The Patrollers had tried the rolled sticks of unfiltered tobacco a handful of time, but had spent the next few hours throwing up of the balcony or with heads held out the open windows, forming pungent puddles of regurgitated porkchops and potatoes around the base of the tree their fort sat on. The pack had not been touched since July 3^rd of that summer.

             The Patrollers now sat a on the floor of Ft. Mischief with their backs against the walls reading the forbidden comic books and sipping colas from glass bottles as the afternoon sun began its slow creep below the horizon in the west. They had been clearance by their parents to spend the night out here and had scrapped their pocket change together to purchase sodas, hotdogs, and candy from the corner store up the road. To cook and eat by the fore they would make when the sun had disappeared.

             Christopher scratched at the dull scar on the back of his hand. The group had each burned themselves with one of the stolen cigarettes on the back of their left hand to signify that they would never allow girls or growing up get in the way of their friendship as they got older. It had been a deep ritual to the Patrollers earlier that summer that they had each taken seriously, like soldiers vowing to keep each other safe before storming the beaches at Normandy. Christopher had been happy to find his company when his family had moved to the small town from Chicago two years prior.

             Originally made fun of for his Italian heritage, with darker skin and Catholic upbringing, Chris Villani had been an outcast for the first couple months until Marten Dempsey had noticed the newcomer at mass sitting in the back with his family. Marten had noticed that Christopher lived in the same rural neighborhood as his other two best friends and had been elated to have another Catholic in his class- even if the kid was a “wop” as his Irish father had said originally- whatever that meant.

             The shared denomination and the fact that Christopher had stood up to (and beaten to a pulp) Billy Barron, the bully who- despite being two years older- was still in the same grade as The Patrollers. Christopher had rightly earned his place in the group when the pizza-faced jerk had called Christopher a- what was it? Day ago? Day glow?- a name while pushing the tan boy into a pile of snow the day before Christmas Break.

              The younger boy had proceeded to jump back up while throwing his book bag down and rain heavy blows on the bully. Christopher’s hands moved in invisible blurs, like a machine gun firing bullets. Apparently, Villani’s father had won a Golden Gloves boxing tournament in the Navy while deployed to the Pacific. He had taught his son how to fight from a young age Christopher told the group when they invited him to Fort Mischief for the first time. The boy had been a perfect fit for the group like he’d been there all along. No one messed with Christopher or the rest of his friends after that, though Billy still picked on those unfortunate enough to be younger and not in such a tight group of friends.

             “Do you guys think it’s time to start the fire?” James popped up into the warm silence of the Treehouse.

             “Good ole Jamesy-Boy,” Marten taunted, “Always ready to eat!” The skinny Irish kid took a pole at James’s ample stomach. Marten Dempsey was the de facto comedian of the group, much tonthe Patrollers amusement and annoyance depending on the situation.

             James Stewardson pushed his thick-rimmed glasses up his pudgy nose and lightly punched Marten’s arm, “Shut, Dempsey, you loud-mouthed mic!” the boy emphasized the slur.

             “That’s Jamesy-Boy for ya,” Marten piped up, unphased by the punch or slur, “His mind is so focused on food that he can’t think of any better comeback.”

             Stephen Rosansky set his comic book of werewolves hunting humans down and spoke sternly, “Shut up, both of you,” he was the unspoken leader of the group. “Let’s get the fire started.”

             Christopher laughed at the exchange but aided his friends in setting up the fire in the middle of the treehouses floor. Well, fire was a loose term for what they set up. It was nothing more than a crude gathering of unscented candles that were half melted down, lit by one of the matches from the secret box behind the milkcrate.

             The sun was almost completely out of the sky, now just a sliver of orange above the tree line, giving a rust color that blended into the dark blue sky that the full moon was taking over. Stephen divided the rations evenly amongst the group on plastic plates purchased at the Army- Navy surplus store in the town over. The boys had taken the long bike trip to get supplies for the fort the summer before.

             There was enough food for each kid to have two hot dogs on buns with three chocolate bars and one soda. They all had canteens from the surplus store filled with water and a stash of canned food and candy from last Halloween stored if anyone needed more food throughout the night.

             Marten stood up to turn on the electric lamp that hung from the ceiling above the makeshift fire. The candles and lamp light provided enough illumination for the group to still read comics or file through the girlie mags if needed.

             The boys ate their dinner in relish. Savoring the smoky flavor of the hotdogs armed over the flames and the sweetness of the melting chocolate. No one said a word while eating.

             Since Christopher was the bodyguard, Marten the comedian, and Stephen the leader, the role of storyteller fell onto James’s shoulders. The other three now wanted a story from their entertainer. James sat quietly for a second trying to think of something to say before settling on a tale about the widow, Mrs. Mudeaux.

             Mrs. Museum had lived in the in the area since before many of the families had of the town with a population of slightly above fifteen hundred residents. The local legend stated that the old hermit was a witch who sacrificed her husband in a deal with the devil back on Halloween of 1912 when she was just twenty-two years old. The old woman lived in a secluded house at the base of the hill of the neighborhood that was falling apart and rotting away. As popular belief among kids and teens went that the old witch stalked these woods on nights under the full moon for children or wayward travelers, masking herself as a beautiful woman as bait, to sacrifice in her horrible rituals. Now the ghosts roamed the woods at night, looking for individuals to take their anger out on. Various accounts spread like wildfires amongst the youth of the town of apparitions stalking the woods when the light was right.

             James recounted the stories to his friends, who all sat silently, clutching their sleeping bags close in fear from being in the same supposedly haunted woods that they were hearing of. The four already knew the stories of the witch, apparently widowed by her own hand- even Christopher had heard the stories in the two years he’d lived in the town, but the way James explained the details and events of the folklore had them trembling. The other three were happy to have a light on in the treehouse.

             “My dad told me that these woods were once used as a burying ground for gangsters also,” Marten chimed in. The town was a three-hour drive from Chicago, so the idea did not seem too far-fetched to the group. Marten continued, adding humor to diffuse the uneasy feeling in the room, “Yeah, all those people like Villani’s family used to dump their murder victims down here so they wouldn’t be found by the Chicago P. D. Shoot, I’m sure Villani’s guinea family probably helped out.” Marten pronounced Christopher’s as “vill-an-eye”  instead of the correct way, which sounded more like “Vill-on-ee”. He knew it upset Chris. The Valachi papers had also been a big topic the year before when Joe Valachi spilled everything on an Italian-American crime organization that kept a hand in everything.

             “You wish, Dempsey, you joking wimp,” Christopher fired back. Everyone laughed regardless, though the fear of the dead still walking around the woods still loomed heavy.

             “No,” Stephen spoke up, “There really are bodies buried in these woods, whether by gangsters or Mrs. Mudeaux or something else.” He helped himself to a piece of candy from the Halloween stash, “My old man told me that’s why this are has been developed more. Too many corpses were already dug up during the construction of our houses years ago. He thinks this used to be a burial ground for Indians long ago.”

             “Don’t they put curses on their burial grounds?” Christopher asked. Their knowledge of everything only went as far as the stories from their horror comics and spoken folk tales of the area.

             “Some people think so, but my old man believes that bad things come from disturbing the dead of any race- curse or no curse,” Stephen replied. The four of them shuddered at the thought of the undead walking around like an unseen predator hunting for prey.

             “What was that?” James asked in fear. A branch had broken with a sharp snapping sound somewhere outside. Each of them had heard it and jumped at the noise.

             Hearts beating into their throats, the boys sat silently. Christopher and Marten fingering the crucifixes they both wore around their necks under their shirts, James holding up one of the sharpened sticks used to hold a hotdog over the fire, and Stephen clutching his bb gun close to his chest. Anyone of them would have looked comical, especially James with the whittled stick in a defensive position, had it not been for the genuine fear of the unknown all of them felt.

             Though, none of them could be certain, the sound of footsteps seemed to resonate from the ground below. The children were all relieved to have hiked up the rope ladder with wooden boards acting as steps that they had designed for the specific reason of not allowing anyone else into their fortress while they inhabited it.

             “That sounds like the footsteps people are right below us!” James screamed in a whisper. His knuckles were snow white as he clutched the thin stick as tightly as he could.

             “Shh! Probably just an animal,” Stephen hissed back, even he didn’t feel like he sounded convincing enough.

             Marten checked his watch and read that it was just past midnight. He had dropped his crucifix over his shirt like Christopher and done while the Italian had reached for his knife. Marten now clutched a baseball bat. With each of them armed with their various weapons, they whispered an agreement to check the windows at the same time. What they saw they would never be able to explain to themselves correctly or tell anyone else, saving it only for reminiscing on their childhood as adults.

             Below the treehouse walked what looked like a coven of witches. Only they weren’t female, and they weren’t necessarily human either. The beings illuminated a light green glow. Each of the four Boys could see the surrounding foliage through the bodies of the figures as they slowly walked around the base of the tree that Fort Mischief occupied. Off to the side, a hooded figure in a black robe stood in the shadows where the moonlight couldn’t reach.

             Though the shadows and dark hood hid the person’s face, the Patrollers were all certain that the seventy-four-year-old widow who had killer her husband almost fifty-two years ago was beneath that robe. Watching the heads peering out the windows.

             “Join us, boys. Be one of us,” a sickly woman’s voice seemed to come from all around. “Don’t you want to remain this age and play in your treehouse forever?”

             Nobody replied, cold sweat had broken out across the foreheads of each child. Marten was crying softly. He still clutched the baseball bat in one hand but was now holding his crucifix close to his heart in his right hand. Christopher prayed silently, reciting Hail Mary’s and Our Father’s. Stephen had turned a sickly green in the face and used all his strength to hold down the vomit threatening to expel out of his mouth. James stood tall but was shaking vehemently, he quietly made a promise to a God he was unsure he believed in to be a better child for his parents and teachers. The old witch continued cackling.

             “Come with me boys, I’ve heard you talking. I know that you don’t want to go back to school. I know that you want to stay in these woods forever and ever.” The witches voice was horrible. She spoke in a wicked screech. Like nails on a chalkboard.

             “Join us, James. Stay with us, Stephen. Come to us, Christopher. Make yourself immortal, Marten,” the group of men chanted in a hallow drone as they paced around the tree.

             Mudeaux spoke again, addressing each of the boys by name, “Stephen, you could be the leader of our happy family alongside me. Christopher, you can be our protector and the one to bring new people into our family. James, you can tell us stories and become a famous writer with what I can show you. Marten, well, everyone needs some laughter in our lives… or afterlives!” she taunted and laughed maniacally. James and Marten backed to laying on the floor, against the wall furthest away from the witch. Christopher and Stephen remained at the windows, freezing cold in the hot summer night.

             “Never, you old hag!” Christopher shouted back to the horror of his friends. “You are nothing but an empty promise, you dried out prune!” the witch seemed to recoil at the words.

             Christopher continued to hurl insults at Mudeaux, she was now visibly trembling as if the words from the child’s mouth were physical objects knocking her back. Stephen caught and joined his buddy, “Yeah, you’re way too old for us! Maybe if you were Jane Russel, wed join!” to two boys at the window laughed at the joke.

             “Get away from us, you foul troll!” James had stood up and added to the verbal firing squad. The witch tried to say something back but it came out feeble and unintelligible, like someone trying to talk after a long journey through the desert with no water.

             Finally, Marten stood up and delivered the final blow in the form of a long-winded monologue so profane that the other three Boys stood with mouths dropped to the floor. The witch had retreated to her home down the hill with her ghostly cronies vanishing into the night air. The boys were safe, but stayed up all night in the treehouse anyway, the mixture of fear and adrenaline pumping too high through their systems.