THE SANDLOT WAS HAUNTED. That was the story that had filled Michael's childhood. He had grown up listening to the old folks nod and whisper. "Don't you be goin' down to the river. Ol' Red got that Mason boy an' he'll ketch you, too." Those stories filled his mind as he considered what he should do.
A set of railroad tracks ran behind his house. They marked the boundary of his world. That area along the riverbanks was just a hazy spot on his internal map. Nothing there except for a warning that said "Here Be Monsters!" He stepped up onto one of the tracks and found his balance. The track was heavy with rust except for the very top where the repeated passage of cars from the B&O line had polished the metal till it gleamed in the morning sun. At ten years old, he was free to wander the streets of the small neighborhood known as Fenwick Bottom, he could walk up and down the tracks, but under no circumstances was he to cross those tracks to explore the shoreline of the Cherry River.
He looked into the sandlot. There didn't seem to be anything scary down there. Just a bunch of weeds, but he knew there was more. Beyond that canopy of leaves lay an unexplored world of fun. Exciting new places that would fill him with wonder and delight. Still, part of him wondered if there could be other things waiting down there. Darker things waiting for him in the shadows. No. He was too old to believe in those stories. Occasionally, he would dangle a foot over the edge of the rail as he considered taking that first step.
Summer was coming to an end, and that ending brought more than a change in weather. It also brought an undeniable need for one last hurrah. Michael felt that need. The impending loss of freedom was an insistent voice in his ear encouraging him to do something before school swallowed him and his friends for another year of books, lessons and drudgery. One last spit in the eye before taking up their yokes. That's why it had been so important to play in the sandlot. So, when all of his friends decided to play down by the river, Michael knew that he would join them.
They had decided to spend their last day of freedom playing one more game of war. Their war was different from the ones Walter Cronkite kept talking about on the news. They had no nuclear weapons. No bombs or airplanes. Just some toy guns-- if they were lucky-- and imagination. The thought of entering the lot left Michael weak and queasy, but he still chose to join those would-be soldiers. His hands shook a little as he pushed some branches aside to make an entrance into that hidden world.
Beyond the weeds, the trees and bracken, he could see the slow moving waters of the river. Smooth stones and river rocks littered the shoreline. His sneakers scuffed the packed sand of an old creek bed. The dried up stream formed a series of natural paths that ran throughout the sandlot. The lot belonged to the older kids: the teenagers. They came down here to ride their four-wheelers, kiss girls and sneak a cigarette or two. Stepping onto the sandy bottom felt like an act of trespass. This was an act of transgression. Not only against the teenagers who claimed this lot, but against his mother and all of her warnings. That violation filled him with both a sense of the forbidden and the promise of the unknown.
He flinched every time he heard a twig snap. He half expected Old Red to jump from a bush at any moment. Would the bogeyman drag them away? Would their bodies be found in one of the nearby abandoned buildings? Michael looked down the tracks to where they crossed route thirty-nine. He could see the decaying facade of an abandoned restaurant. That would be a great place for a murder.
He needed to think about something else. He took a deep breath and then another. He blew the air out slowly and tried not to think about Old Red. This empty lot was just a pile of dirt and plants allowed to grow wild. It wasn’t the haunted playground of some make-believe delusional monster. That was a story his mom had made up. Her stories were no reason to be afraid. He kept repeating that to himself. No reason to be afraid. No reason to be afraid. This was different from looking into the lot from the safety of his back porch. He was no longer protected by distance. Now, he stood at the very edge of this uncharted territory.
Was he really doing this?
He stepped into the knee-high weeds. There, he found a piece of driftwood. It was just about perfect. The wood felt smooth in his hand, and it was long enough to serve as a stand-in for a rifle. Okay, so some of it involved a little imagination, but it was better than forming a pistol with your fingers. Not everyone could be like Timmy Baldwin and the real cap guns his parents had bought him for Christmas.
The stick offered another benefit, as well. Until the game started, it would serve as a tool. He used it to whack down some of the larger bushes. He felt like a pioneer pushing back the boundaries of the known world. Blazing a trail that would be followed by others as he tamed the unknown.
His path took him through a group of saplings. They were too thick to beat down. He pushed one of them to the side and started to squeeze between the trunks. It happened right as he had made it past the first two. He felt something grab him. It tugged and pulled at his shirt. It stopped him from moving forward. He was sure that Old Red had grabbed him. Any second now, he would be dragged off to the restaurant or some murder hole.
He turned fully expecting to see the deranged eyes of a maniac. Instead, he saw his shirt tangled in one of the small limbs of a poplar.
Michael sighed, then chuckled at himself for being so stupid. As he freed himself from those grasping wooden fingers, he chanced a look up to his house. The thought occurred to him that he’d never seen it from this angle. Really, he just wanted to remind himself that safety was only thirty feet or so away. If something did reach out to get him, surely, he would be able to make it back home before anything bad happened. He paused to consider the big yellow house he called home. From where he stood, he could barely see the back porch and the clothes line peeking up from behind the branches of a poplar.
Would his mom be hanging laundry today? He couldn’t remember, but, if she caught him in the lot—oh, he’d catch it bad. If he chickened out now though, he’d never hear the end of it. All of his friends were going. He didn't want to be the only fourth grader from Fenwick Elementary, who’d stayed home.
As he stepped into the lot, all of the rules and the warnings that filled his childhood flashed into his mind. Those rules—her rules—were always there. They were just under the surface. His willful violation of them made him that much more aware of their presence—and his transgression. Her rules were always based on the stories that she delivered in solemn tones. They were to be accepted without question. Questions were just “backtalk and sass” and she’d made it clear over and over again that she would not put up with either.
“Michael,” he heard a voice say. For a second, he thought his mom had somehow caught him after all. The voice repeated his name. His eyes frantically scanned his backyard looking for his mother, but he didn’t see her. Instead, the face of his neighbor and friend-for-the-moment, Paul Miller popped into view.
“You a-comin’ or are ya chicken,” the boy asked.
“Yeah,” Michael said as he let go of the poplar. It sprang back into place with a satisfying whoosh. “I’m coming.” He gave his home one last glance, turned his back on it and stepped into the unknown. Each step was an affirmation that her tales about Old Red were just another baby story like Santa Claus or any of the others adults use to control children. Now, that he was on the other side of the tracks and outside of his yard, he felt free from her control.
Standing in the actual lot felt exhilarating. His eye followed the rutted trail that had been left in the sand by the four wheelers. He saw the packed down centers hammered by sneakers and carved by bicycle tires. The places where the winter runoff left ribbons of sand curling between the stands of spruce and maple. He heard birds singing. This didn’t seem like the dark foreboding world that he had thought it to be. He giggled.
Paul gave him a look like he was crazy. “What’s so funny?”
“This place,” Michael said as he looked around, “it’s not that scary. It looks just like anywhere else along this river.”
They found the boys gathered in the center of the lot. They divided up into teams. They played next to the river all day. Other than a few skinned knees, not a thing happened.
Evening came, and dusk stole something from the world. Colors faded, and reality grew a little less defined. Softer around the edges. Soon their mothers would begin calling them. Time to come inside. Time for dinner or yet another bath. They all knew that the day would soon end, but they also shared an unspoken understanding. Something they knew down in their guts the way they sometimes knew when the friendly punches or shoves meant something more: time to push back--just a little harder. It was a shared understanding. They still had some time left. Time enough for one last game.
Michael squinted into the gathering darkness. The dim light made it hard to tell which of his friends were on his team and which ones were the 'bad guys'. He spotted some of his teammates hiding in a large rhododendron bush. Greg kept popping his head up to see if anyone approached their position. Other players took refuge in the impromptu fox holes that they’d dug along the sandy shoreline earlier that day. Some of the kids, from the other team, had managed to climb onto a platform that the high schoolers had turned into a tree house last summer. That tree house would be hard to take. The kids up there would be able to see anyone who stepped into the open.
For this last round, he decided to do something different. He grabbed his friend Paul, and they broke off from the main group. Michael called the gangly boy his friend, but he didn't think of Paul that way. Not really. The honest part of Michael didn't like to admit it, but the real reason he hung around his neighbor had less to do with enjoying his company and more to do with his Atari 2600. Paul's dad had bought the game system for his birthday a few months back. Ever since then, Michael had been his best friend. His only friend.
Michael loved to play Asteroids and to go to Paul's house saved him a lot of money. Much cheaper than plugging quarters into the arcade at the laundromat. Playing at Paul's house also offered the advantage of unlimited lives. He could die over and over again. Starting a new game was as simple as sliding the Game Reset switch. Kind of like the game they were playing right now. It didn't matter if you died. A new round would start in a few minutes, but dying out here was different from playing the game at Paul's house. Out here his entire class had seen him die over and over. He had grown tired of hearing "Bang! Bang! You're dead."
The two boys took up position in the blackberries that grew next to the railroad tracks. Michael thought they would be able to ambush people as they ran down the dried up stream bed. After sitting there for a half hour, Michael admitted that they had a problem. The game had shifted. Everyone now played at the other end of the lot. "We've got to get up there," Michael said.
He could see the kids running in the growing gloom. They ran back and forth jumping out at one another and making the sounds of gunfire with their mouths. He watched as Billy Hudson made an exaggerated show of the recoil from the stick that he imagined to be an M-16. Even from this distance, he heard Billy cry: "Bang! Bang! You're dead."
Tommy, Billy's younger brother, denied that he had been shot with more conviction than a preacher puts into his best Sunday sermon: "Am not!"
Billy took a step closer to his brother and shoved him to the ground. "Are too. Now, stay down." Several of the other boys started to gather in the hopes that a fight was about to break out.
"This is our chance," Michael said, "Let's move while they’re fighting."
Paul started to move, but Michael placed a hand on his arm to stop him. "Let's double check we're really alone," Michael whispered. "That's how they get you, ya know? They wait for just the right moment. Then, when you think you're safe, they jump out and kill you."
You never knew who else might be hiding nearby. Someone could be out there sitting in the shadows, watching. His eyes darted from one bush to the next. There were so many places to hide down here. So many dark corners and shadowed places under the thick branches of leafy trees. Was someone staring at him from the cover of some darkened corner? The question made him think of his of his Uncle Jack. Had it been like this for him when he was fighting in Nam? Just thinking the word made him remember how he'd tried to look for Nam on a map, but couldn't find it. To this day, he still didn't know where Jackie had died. Had Jackie spent his last moments crouched in a bunch of weeds and briars? Did he hear the enemy call out to him? Did he hear, "Bang! Bang! You're dead."
Michael felt Paul elbow him. Not now, he thought. He pushed back. "I think I saw something move in the treeline." He pointed. "There. Next to the river." He returned his focus to the trees.
"It's probably just a bird," Paul said. "Look. The fight's over."
Michael looked up and saw that Billy had won. Again. His brother Tommy was curled up into a ball under the big maple tree. This wasn't the first time Micheal had seen Billy beat up smaller kids. Just once, Michael wished that someone would teach that bully a lesson. Billy continued to taunt his younger brother. "Sissy. You cry like a girl." Tommy wiped tears from his face and looked up at his brother with real hatred in his eyes. Michael saw that he too wished someone would teach Billy a lesson.A few of the other boys laughed at Tommy. Someone made mock crying noises, but Michael couldn't make out who it was. For the most part though, the group was dispersing. The fight was over. The excitement ended. The sandlot grew quiet as the boys returned to their hiding spots. Michael realized that they’d missed their chance to move to a better position. He'd been so caught up with the fight that he'd forgotten the need to seize the opportunity.
Michael saw Billy turn to go. The boy had barely taken a step before he fell to the ground. Now, he was crying. He had grabbed his right leg and was vigorously rubbing the calf muscle. He continued to watch as he saw Tommy get to his feet. He was still holding the thick branch that he was using as a make-believe gun."Who's crying now," Tommy shouted and then he swung the branch at his brother's other leg. "How does that feel, Billy? Are you going to cry now?" Tommy almost danced around his brother. The other boys had started to make their way back to the clearing to see what was going on. Tommy didn't seem to notice his growing audience. He just continued his dance and to ask the question, "Are you going to cry about it?"
Off to their side, almost on the banks of the river, several crows took flight. They were close enough that he could hear the flutter of their dark feathers and the echoes of their hoarse cries as they flew across the river. Almost immediately after the birds left, someone let out a panicked scream from that same location. The shrill cry ended abruptly and was followed by an eerie silence. Even Billy and Tommy had stopped fighting. Everyone looked toward the river.
"We've got to move. Now," Michael said. They took one last look at their surroundings to make sure they were alone. Satisfied that they were safe, Michael nodded to Paul to let him know they could move. They picked their way through the thorns and stepped onto the dirty gray gravel that lined the railroad tracks. The oily stench of baking creosote hung in the humid air. Had that smell actually gotten worse? He couldn't remember a time when it had smelled like rotting meat.
The sun had completely set. The sky had turned to the color of steel wool. Soon, it would be too dark to play. Soon, they would be out of time. They had to move fast. If they got in position, they would be able to pick everyone off as soon as the game resumed. Michael pointed to a spot at the edge of the treeline. In the gathering darkness, they'd be all but invisible. When Paul didn't respond, Michael turned in frustration. What he saw snatched the angry words from his mouth before he could speak them.
A creature stood between the railroad tracks. The shadowy figure cradled Paul's slumped body in a grip that was too tight. The fingers were unnaturally long--distended parodies of what hands should be. The wispy mass of shadows jerked into a tortured posture. Its shoulders hunched forward; the creature's torso bent over at an unnatural angle.
The thing lowered its muzzle toward the limp body. Michael heard a gentle, but insistent, sucking. The creature pulled Paul's body closer. Michael watched as his friend’s body began to shake. Paul's arms twitched, and his head lolled back and forth in violent spasms. After what felt like hours, he stopped moving. His body went still and looked drained of color.
Michael didn't know when he had stopped screaming. He wanted to continue and would have, but the shadow-thing raised its head. Now, the baleful gaze of that one red eye froze him in place. Every instinct told Michael to run, but all he could do was stare. The misshapen head cocked from side to side as Michael tried to make his legs move.
It tossed Paul's corpse over the side of the hill. Like he was a piece of trash. The body hit the gravel, bounced and rolled under a clump of sumac. A smear of blood stained the gravel where Paul's body hit.
Michael knew the boy was dead. He could tell it by the way he fell. No attempt to control the landing. No concern for safety. Just dead weight falling onto the hard, unyielding earth.
Just dead weight. That's what Michael's legs felt like as he watched the shape rise to its full height. Michael tried to take a step backward, but he bumped into something hard behind him.
The boy spun round and came face to face with a twin of the creature that had just killed Paul. A huge red eye filled his vision.
Michael blinked. That didn't make sense. Could the creature be fast enough to jump behind him that quickly? He turned to run the other direction, but then he saw the original still standing on the tracks next to Paul's dead body.
Michael's stomach lurched when the creature's arm rose. One of those too long, gnarled fingers sliced through the fabric of his Buck Rogers shirt neatly dividing the silkscreened image of Gil Gerard in half.
Michael wanted to scream. He opened his mouth and tried, but the sound would not come. Instead, he heard another voice. It came from behind him. A low hiss of static right into his ear that said, "Bang!" As the word registered, another voice repeated it, but this time it came from the creature in the front. "Bang!"
The back of Michael's throat tasted like brass. He had never been this scared in his life. He felt like throwing up. He rushed a hand to his mouth to hold it in, but he got distracted by the sounds.
They were coming from the banks of the river. At first, he didn't recognize them. He couldn't figure out what the sounds were. Then he understood. They were the short, abrupt screams of his friends and classmates. Michael's attempt to figure out the meaning behind those screams was interrupted by the words that he had been trying to avoid hearing all day.
"You're dead."
Author's Note:
Thanks for reading this story. If you've made it this far, I hope you'll take a moment to comment to let me know what you thought about the piece. It's the first story I've uploaded to Wattpad, and I'm curious to find out how people respond to the story.
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I look forward to hearing from you.
-John