Cops and Ghosts

Cops and Ghosts

   All the little monsters and goblins have vacated the streets by now. Safe at home, their tricks and treats piled high on newspaper covered carpet or in heaps spilling off the kitchen table.

    They would be bouncing off the bedroom walls tonight, the effects of a massive sugar rush.

Not so for Chuck and Dave, too old for door-to-door candy collecting but not of age to attain a drivers license, they celebrated Halloween in a whole new way this year.

   Chuck swiped a micky of Canadian Club whisky from his father’s liqueur cabinet and between passing and sipping both were in a joyous mood as they sauntered down the dark abandoned street on the way home.

   A true adventure for these two. Either boy would on occasion sneak a peek at another’s test paper and did enjoy cursing now and again, but no real trouble to their fellow man or for Mom and Dad.

   As they staggered up to a construction site, singing ‘Those were the days’ over and over as they didn’t know the rest of the words, Dave stopped to lean against the surrounding plywood fence. A good as place as any to expel some of those spirits that altered his thinking.  While he took care of business, Chuck, equally lacking command sense, picked up a baseball size rock and hurled it over the fence smashing a new and expensive large window.

   A cop, updating reports in his patrol car behind the fence and directly below the shattering glass, was not amused as hundreds of jagged pieces came crashing down upon his cruiser.

   Hardly a second passed from when the officer hit his overheads and both boys were racing down the street.  At first, using the middle of the empty street as a runway they immediately changed course when hearing the speeding police car approaching from behind.  From then on and for several blocks it was rolling over hedges, leaping gates, diving over change link fences, and full speed ahead down familiar alleys.

   Tiring at a faster rate than two sober fugitives, they desperately needed a place to hide. Straight ahead lied the entrance to the town cemetery. In they ran, flopping down behind the nearest headstone, they gasped for air and curled together, their backs to the monument.

    Alcohol was still playing its game and the boys couldn’t help snickering and giggling and mischievously punching one another.

   Silence returned as the cruiser slowed and the officer illuminated the area with the side spotlight. The beam cast eerie shadows that bounced and danced in the trees. The guys had to cover their mouths to suppress laughter when Chuck pointed to Dave's crotch where a tiny pink penis head protruded.

“Barn doors still open” whispered Chuck, making it even more difficult to muffle themselves.

   Dave, sporting a blushing red face, took care of the matter directly.

   The cop finally left, rounded the cemetery one more time and drove off.  He had bigger fish to fry. The duo decided to stay a while longer to be sure it wasn’t a cop trick.

   Chuck still had the bottle, he twisted off the cap and after a long swig passed the poison over to Dave. He didn't like the taste any more than Chuck did but this was their night to howl.

   Finishing the booze Dave tossed the container off to the side. The rolling bottle stirred up the dry leaves of the season sounding as though footsteps were approaching. The boys smiled but when the crunching noise continued, they glared at one another. Peeking from around the granite grave marker they could see nothing in the dark grey of the moonlit night. The sound continued, came closer, louder, still invisible but for sure it was there.

“Who’s out there?” shouted Dave.

“We have weapons.” Chuck called out.

   Dave gave Chuck a ‘What?’ look and Chuck showing an exuberant amount of white in his eyes, shrugged his shoulders.

   Carefully and with the aid of the headstone the boys rose to their feet.  A creepy hissing sound vibrated through the cemetery, which sent Chuck tearing off into the gloomy night before running knees first into a cement cross, a marker from long ago.

   Dave dashing off in the other direction also found a huge marker to stop his retreat. Laying among the dried vegetation, the boys, trying to sound somewhat brave, called out for one another. “I’m here, I’m OK.” said Chuck.

   “Yes, my legs scratched up, but I’m alright.” answered Dave. “Did anything kill you?” he added.

   “Idiot” replied Chuck.

   They crawled, hugging the earth, until once again united.  Chuck held his finger to his mouth signaling that they should be silent and listen. Chuck pushed Dave back as he was getting a might to close for comfort, but secretly welcomed the assurance that not being alone brings.

   “Hey Chuck?” Dave asked, “You still got the weapons?” That brought some relieve and a nervous grin for Chuck.

   The two discussed the scenario. Maybe the cop was wandering about. But they would have seen him, whatever made those noises was invisible. Maybe an owl, owls fly you dummy, or a ghost.

   The situation did not get any better when the full moon, their only source of light, went behind a cloud. The night turned colder and blacker, darker than the devils’ eyes.  Another sound, a definite movement coming from near the headstone where the boys first took refuge.

   Then a shrill squeal, teeth gnashing, fighting, growls, leaves, and debris falling about the boys.

   The air filled with a putrid smell that nearly sickened the boys.

   Now Chuck was the one getting too close for a boy’s comfort, they hugged without shame and held on tight.  Death was an arm’s length away and all was lost.  How would their parents ever go on?

  “You’re my best friend” Screamed Chuck.

  “You’re my best pal too.” answered Dave.

   Just as the two had given up all hope a pair of black and white critters appeared.  Skunks, male skunks, out in the crisp night deciding who would be the alpha make of this domain.

   Chuck and Dave got up and dusted off the leaves from their shirts and pants.  Again, they punched each other and staggered away leaving the cemetery. They took the street home, preferring the bright overhead lights to the dark and narrow lane of an alley.  Confident Inspector Clouseau was long gone the boys again broke into rendition of ‘How dry I am” over and over again.

   The night once again grew bright casting shadows over the graveyard as the clouds moved on.

   “I thought them youngsters would never git.” Said Stagecoach Bill.

   “Seems they got hold of the old man’s moonshine.” Answered Shotgun Pete.

   “You remember when we got a snoot full at their age and damn near fell off our horses?” asked Stagecoach Bill.

   The two took a few minutes to put out a few supernatural boos echoing into the night.

  “Damn near didn’t get the bank robbed that night.” Laughed Shotgun Pete.

  “How long ago was that?” asked Shotgun Pete.

“1887” answered his friend. “The same year we were shot dead by Wyatt Earp.”

 ” My, my.” Said Shotgun Pete. “How time flies.”

“Yep” Said Stagecoach Bill,” We best git to haunting, I reckon.”

“You bet Bill.” See ya tomorrow night, same place, same time.”

The End