Creepy - Tear to Pieces, Burn, and Destroy

Episode Date: June 21, 2021

Don't all houses have their share of ghosts?***Written by TW Grim and guest narrated by Joe Stofko, Steve Blizin, Michelle Kane, and Alicia Atkins***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Produced by Steve Blizin***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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First, the quick happy father's day to all the horror dads out there, just trying to get some writing done while the walls of reality bend and twist and that bartender won't leave you alone about taking an accent. Uh, never, never mind. And, um, was he saying? Oh, yeah. Some of you may have already noticed that today's story is almost two hours in length. As such, there will be an ad break in the middle of the production. This is a rare exception that we fall into with our new attempt to reduce the effect of commercials on the story.

Hopefully, this story from a certain beloved uncle, that in my opinion may be our producer Steve Blizzin's finest work, we'll smooth those edges a bit. Now, this is a bit. Creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories

truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents

Tear to pieces Burn and Destroy Tales from Henry's Farm Part 5 Written by T.W. Grimm With guest narration By Joe Stofco Michelle Kane

Steve Blisen and Alicia Atkins And produced by Steve Blizzin Time flows differently when you're working through a rough spot in life. Somehow speeds along and drags to a standstill all at the same time. As I watched Henry's treatment slowly wear him down,

summer somehow slipped away into autumn. And before I knew it, autumn had withered and curled up into winter. I bore witness through his suffering, and I suffered along with him. Henry's a tough old buzzard, no doubt about it. but I secretly feared the neo-juven therapy would be the death of him before the cancer even had a chance to step up to the plate. As Henry's body declined, so did his spirit, and I began to fear he was losing the will to fight against this awful disease. I spent nights staring at the ceiling while Michelle slept beside me, thinking about the preparations which would have to be made for Henry's eventual passing.

I hated myself for doing it. But I couldn't ignore the reality of a situation in favor of unrealistic hopes and wishes. Henry had made me the executor of his estate, so it would be my responsibility to oversee the ghastly business of disassemble and the remnants of his earthly existence, piece by piece, until no trace of him is left. As it turns out, Henry had the granddaddy of loose ends waiting for me at the farmhouse. a nasty bit of unfinished business that will definitely have me laying awake on many knots to come.

I'll admit, I used to doubt some of the wilder details my uncle's tall tales. But after what happened out at the farm on the weekend of Henry's surgery, I'm not so sure anymore. Henry's surgery was scheduled for early Friday morning, so Michelle and I brought him in on Thursday evening. Henry put up a tough front, as always, but the fear in his eyes was heartbreaking. Michelle could barely look at him without tearing up, and two of my cousins ended up taking a few minutes in the bathroom to compose themselves in privacy.

Henry is much loved in our family. Some of them couldn't even bring themselves to acknowledge the gravity of his situation. They spoke in terms of hope and recovery, ignoring their own. grim reality that was laid out in stark detail by the specialist in favor of wax and poetic about the huge party we'd throw when Henry returns from the hospital. It was irritating as hell, but I understand that some people have to whistle in the dark. It's the only way they can cope with the shadows. About a week before the eve of the surgery, Henry had asked me in a hushed and somber tone

if I'd be able to stay at the farm that weekend and take care of something for him. Given my recent state of mind, it isn't surprising that I had agreed and then promptly forgot all about it. As we were saying our goodbyes that night, Henry clasped my hand in a weak, two-handed grip, and looked me in the eye. He said, Don't forget, there's something I need you to do out on the farm this weekend. and I wrote it all down for you in a notebook, and I left it on my nightstand. I winced internally, then smiled and assured him.

Oh, yep, I remember. Yeah, sure. No problem. Henry looked me in the eye and said, The sooner, the better. He hesitated, then added. You should probably plan to stay the night. You can still do that for me, right?

I shot a pleading look at Michelle and said, Sure, of course. We don't mind helping out, right, hon? Michelle forced a cheerful smile and said, Oh, yeah, that's no problem. Don't worry about a thing. He'll take care of it. I have to work Saturday morning, though, so I guess he'll be on his own.

Henry didn't smile back. He nodded very slightly and murmured. That's probably best if he handles it by himself. Well, wish me luck, kids. This old man is going into the belly of the beast tomorrow. We kept our goodbyes brief. It would have been too hard to leave if we didn't, and Henry needed to get some rest.

I was pretty wiped out myself, but I wasn't so tired that I couldn't pick up on Michelle's sudden mood swing. I could feel the tension coming off for in waves. After we hit the highway, I turned down the radio and asked what was. wrong. As I'd expected, Michelle hated the idea not being there for each other for moral support during the days immediately following Henry's surgery. However, she also made it clear there was no way in hell she would even consider spending the night at Henry's house.

And it had nothing to do with the long drive to work in the morning. Not only that, but she didn't want me to spend the weekend at the farm either. Not one bit. When I asked her why, she snapped. What? Come on, are you completely oblivious? That place is haunted. I looked over at her and snorted. Haunted?

No, it's not. Why would you say that? She rolled her eyes and said, Oh, come on. You're telling me you've never felt it. That house is haunted as, fuck, are you kidding me? I reminded her that I didn't believe in that kind of thing.

And she pointed out the ghost probably didn't care if I believed in them or not. We bicker back and forth until I finally sighed. Look, let's just agree to disagree, okay? Michelle wasn't having any of that. She snapped. Let's not. I can't believe you. You're that idiot in every shitty horror movie who ends up dying in the first half hour.

Stop being dumb and listen to me. I'm telling you, there's a very weird and haunted vibe going on in that house. And that nasty root cellar? Yeah, no. No, thanks. The house completely taken off guard by her anger. I took a deep breath and asked, Where's this coming from?

I've slept under that roof countless times over the years. And I'd never seen anything weird going on, not once. Have you? Well, not. Not exactly. She grumbled. But I've always felt it, you know. This is nothing new.

I've just never had a reason to bring it up before. So, what's the reason? Michelle shook her head and looked away. I reached over and gently squeezed her shoulder. Look, I don't know where this is coming from, but I promise I won't be murdered by ghosts. Scouts on her. She frowned at me and pulled away. It's not funny.

Look, it probably sounds stupid or whatever, but I had a bad dream a few nights ago. A nightmare. It was really crazy, but I can only remember the worst part. Michelle pursed her lips and shook her head. That prompted. What happened in the dream? She was suddenly wiping tears from her eyes. You were down in the root cellar.

She said. And your forehead was covered in blood. You climbed the ladder and started pounding on the trap door. Something was coming for you in the background. Something bad. You were screaming. She looked over at me with a look, a naked dread and a red, watery eyes, and she quavered. It was very intense.

It wasn't like every other dream I've ever had, you know, where everything is all fuzzy and like kind of detached from reality. I could actually smell the dirt floor. That's how real it was. I woke up in a panic and I couldn't go back to sleep for a long time. I just laid there and watched you snore. I couldn't stop shaking. Despite my skepticism regarding ghosts and all things supernatural,

this imagery made me shiver a little inside the bulky confines. my winter coat. I turned up the heat a bit and said, Wow, yeah, I see. Huh, look, I honestly don't think your dream was a prophecy of some kind. I do however think Henry's surgery has is both on edge. You get what I'm saying? I don't know why you think Henry lives in the house from the Amityville horror. That was just a dream. Sure, it was just a dream. Michelle interrupted.

But that doesn't mean I have to like any of this, right? That house is old and dark and creepy as hell. I've always hated being there after sunset. There's just this sense of like foreboding I get when the sun goes down behind the tree line. I'll be sitting there at the table with you and Henry, and I'll keep thinking that I heard footsteps in another room. I'll see movement out of the corner of my eye, but when I turn my head, nothing's there.

I always feel like there's something watching us when the light fades and the windows get dark. It creeps me out. Well, I drolled. I can't say I've ever felt anything like that. But I can see you have a different opinion on the matter. I'm not sure what to tell you, hon. I've never seen or... Michelle shushed me with a hand on her.

shoulder. She let out a long, shake your breath, and said, Okay, fine. All that other stuff aside, my dream was very intense. And I can't stress that enough. I could feel your panic and fear. It was super fucking scary. No joke. I stayed quiet for a while as I turned her words over in my mind. I had to admit there was something to decidedly off. What was this chore that Henry needed me to perform exactly? And why did he need to write down instructions in a notebook? Why didn't he just tell me what he needed to be done when he brought it up a week before the surgery?

Back at the hospital, Henry had told Michelle... It's probably best if he handles this by himself. And coming from Uncle Henry, the blunt delivery of this statement was pretty strange. He'd always been nothing but gracious and inviting whenever he spoke to my wife. And the way you worded this demural had definitely sounded discouraging. For the first time in my life, I found myself wondering if Henry might have had a few skeletons lurking in his closet. I knew I'd freak Michelle out even more if I shared any of these thoughts with her. So I just shrugged and said,

Look, I don't like it either. But I have to do this. I'm the executor of the estate, right? He might have some last-minute details that need to be taken care of before the farm... I trailed off, but it was too late. Michelle sat up straight in the passenger seat and asked... For what?

Before the farm goes on the market, I murmured. If he makes it through this, Henry wants to sell it and move into a retirement community. If he doesn't, Well, it'll be sold anyway. Either way, the family farm won't be in the family much longer. Michelle digested this information for a minute in the dark, then cleared her throat and said, Wow, that's...

Well, that's too bad, honey. I know how much you love that place. It's very special to you. I blinked away a sudden mist that threatened to cloud my vision. I was squeezing the steering wheel too. hard and I forced myself to relax my grip. I'll miss the farm with all my heart and that's a fact. I'd always secretly hoped I'd convince Henry to sell it to me someday.

You know, keep the property and the family and all that. I'm no farmer, but I could have led Johansson sharecropped fields and the harvest would have paid the property taxes. Probably a good chunk of the mortgage too. Shit, we could have just torn the old house down and built a new one if that's what you wanted. It's not the house I care about. It's the land itself, you know. We could...

Gently, Michelle said. You know we can't afford it. I gritted my teeth in a sudden flash of white-hot fury. I felt small, helpless, and profoundly ashamed of my failure. Before long, the farm would pass into the hands of a stranger, and the very thought was intolerable. The farm didn't belong to some hypothetical dickhead with money to burn. Belonged to us, God damn it. My family had wrestled a difficult living from that soul for many, many decades,

struggling through the droughts and the floods, bad harvets and personal tragedies, forever toiling in the dirt as we labored toward building a better future. It was unfathomable that someone could just swoop in and snatch away our history with a few scrawled signatures and a pile of cash. It was almost obscene. I know we can't afford it. I croaked, and I turned the radio up a volume that made for the conversation impossible. I needed some time to turn off my brain and lose myself in the flow of traffic.

I didn't say another word for the rest of the way home. There was nothing left to say. We both slept poorly that night, and we dragged ourselves out of bed early in the morning for a long trek back to the hospital. We were directed to a waiting room full of anxious-looking strained. strangers. Everyone was pale and exhausted. There was some murmured conversation, but most of them sat in silence. It wasn't long before my eyelids started getting heavy. I gave Michelle a pleading look, and she patted her shoulder. I whispered, thank you, and nestled up against her for a little nap. She rubbed my hand and went back to her book, some grisly thing about a serial killer in the Midwest.

She may be deathly afraid of ghosts, but my wife sure does love her true life horror stories. I woke up in a state of deep confusion. It was dark in the waiting room. The floor was jaunce and around beneath my chair. Michelle's hooded sweatshirt stank like old booze and stale cigarette smoke against my cheek. She pushed me off her shoulder with an irritated grunt and said, Get the fuck off me, kid. I'm trying to drive here. It wasn't Michelle sitting beside me.

He was my dad. The plastic chairs have been replaced with the bench seat and dad's old shabby pickup truck. He was the dead of night and I was wearing my winter coat over my pajamas. I blinked up Adam and yawn. Where we're going? Dad glared at him and he swirving onto the shoulder of the road in the process and he snarled. Don't worry about that. Scoot over there and lay your head against the window.

Go back to sleep. He lit up a cigarette, and I saw a big, bloody scrape on his forehead and a wavering glow of his zippo. I was tired, cold, and absolutely grim and with questions. But I kept my mouth shut and did as I was told, using the hood of my winter coat as a makeshift pillow to cushion my head against glass. Dad lowered his voice to a harsh one. whisper and hissed.

You don't tell your mother about this. You don't tell anyone about this. You hear me? Just forget about it. Go back to sleep. I murmured. I won't tell. Then close my eyes.

I fell asleep at the dull rumble of the robe beneath the tires. Then when I opened him again, I was back in the present. Slumped over in a chair in a hospital waiting room. Michelle was gently shaking me by the shoulder. Wake up. She whispered. The doctor's here. We followed the doctor to a small meeting room where she sat us down and calmly explained the next few days would be critical.

I feel your uncle's chances of long-term recovery are pretty decent, she said. But we did encounter some complications during the operation. It was nothing out of the ordinary, but Henry's condition is very delicate at the moment. I leaned forward to my chair and told her very, very full. firmly that Henry would make it, because Henry is a fighter. I was faintly aware that my hands were clenched together in my lap. I nodded a little too vigorously and added, There's no way he'd let this thing win.

Not Henry. He's a force in nature. Absolutely, she said. And I saw in her eyes that it didn't matter. The outcome would be determined with a roll of the dice by the hand of blind fate. We could only stand by and hope. Michelle volunteered to drive on the way home, and I spent most of the rides staring out my window with a lump of lead in my stomach. The dream I had in the waiting room was actually an old and mostly forgotten memory from my early childhood.

I examined this fragment from the past as the miles slipped behind us, and I realized I could remember a little bit more. I could recall looking at my bedroom window and seeing Henry staying with my dad in the driveway. Anyway, Henry looked like he was extremely agitated, his breath streaming from his mouth and long plumes wide as he waved his arms in the air. He held my dad drag something out of the bed of Dad's old pickup, and they loaded it into the back of Henry's truck. There was a long cylindrical object, wrapped tightly in a canvas tarp and bound with a length of rope.

Afterwards, Dad came upstairs, packed some of my clothes and bundled me in my coat, and then And then we went... Where? And why? And most importantly, what was in that tarp? And why was this memory giving me so much anxiety? Superstitious or not, I couldn't help but feel the Michelle's dream and my fragment of memory were somehow connected. Even if they weren't connected, it was still weird as fuck.

And I didn't like it. No, one bit. It was after four by the time we pulled into our driveway. Despite a last-ditch effort from my wife to convince me to stay, I filled my travel mug with coffee, packed a few things in an open-out bag, and gave her hug goodbye. She seized me by the arms and demanded. You must have your phone turned on and within reach at all times. I know that sounds stupid, and I don't care.

I'm not fucking around here. Do it. I know you aren't, and I will. will. I promise. Let me know right away if the hospital calls about Henry. Bye, hon. Michelle came out to our balcony and watched me back out of my parking spot, something she hadn't done in a very long time. I waved to her as I started to drive away, but she didn't wait back. She was more than a little freaked out by the whole situation, and to be honest, I was starting to get kind of nervous myself. I couldn't shake the feeling I was about to wander, hole and breathing, right into one of Henry's tall tales.

I cleared my throat, looked at myself in the rearview mirror and said out loud, Stop being a goddamn idiot! That house isn't haunted? I knew I was full of shit as soon as the words tumbled off my lips. There were countless memories waiting for me within those walls. and what are memories, if not spectral reflections of the past? No, yes, there would be many memories, good and bad. There are probably a few secrets as well.

Now, some secrets are best left to rot away in the root cellar of a bygone era, but others take root and bear poisonous fruits in the dark. Some secrets must be exposed, or they will ruin everything you have ever held dear to your heart. Denial is a luxury for those who have time to spare, and Henry's time on this planet was coming to an end. I had a sinking feeling Henry may have been keeping a secret that would not quietly die along with him when he breathed his last.

I didn't have the faintest clue what was in store for me at the farmhouse, and frankly, I wasn't looking forward to finding out. It was late afternoon by the time I pulled into the laneway, and the sky was just beginning to turn red and west as the sun sank below the tree line. My breath streamed out long, wispy clouds as I crunched through the snow to the back door. I let myself in, kicked off my boots and immediately started turning on all the lights. I tiptoed from room to room with a heavy candle stick clutched in my hand. My makeshift weapon poised to crack some ghostly skulls as I reached around gloomy corners to flick on a light switch.

I knew I was being ridiculous, but it made me feel better, and that was all that mattered. When all the shadows have been dispelled, they're hiding the spots in the corners, I felt absurdly relieved. I thought to myself, apparently a ghost can only get you in the dark. Then I let out a shaky little giggle. I sighed. There, all better now. And I slung my coat over the back of the couch.

Now that the monsters have been banished by the cleansing glow of electric light, my stomach decided to unclench itself and started rumbling. I scavenged round in the kitchen and fixed myself a double-decker sandwich, replete with a dill pickle and a handful of potato chips on the side. I snapped on the old radio, Henry kept on the kitchen counter and sat down to my dinner as shocking blue saying, Can you feel my love buzz? Henry was particularly fond of a station that mostly played rock and roll classics from the 50s, 60s, and 70s, an era which Henry referred to as, back when they could actually sing a goddamn song.

As I was shoving the last potato chip in my mouth, I got a text message from Michelle. It read, Hi, are you still alive? I answered. Yep, still breathing. Having about to eat. What are you doing? Worrying about stuff. Have you had a chance yet to look at the instructions he left for you? What was so important that you had to take care of it on the weekend of his surgery? I hadn't actually gotten around to looking at the notebook yet, although I'd seen it sitting on Henry's nightstand when I popped into his bedroom and turned the lights on.

The truth was that I genuinely dreaded what I might read in the passages of that battered, grimy, looking spiral notebook. I didn't know what was in there, but I knew I wasn't going to like it very much. I thought about it for a minute, I messaged back. Don't say a word about this to anyone, but Henry wants me to get rid of a box full old porn old magazines. He was scared it might be found by the wrong person if the surgery doesn't go his way. There's some other stuff he wants me to do around the farm, but getting rid of the porn is the main objective. Michelle answered. Oh, M.G. Really?

Can you please smuggle one back home? I need to see this. I smiled and spied myself and typed. Sorry, but I really shouldn't do that. And her would be mortified if you ever found out. She sent a sad face followed with. Boo. Can you at least take a few pictures?

Are they really weird and gross? I message back. Nah, they're pretty tame. You're not missing much. Michelle responded with another sad face and a decidedly huffy. Okay. Fine. Love you. Talk to you later. I didn't like lying to her like that, but I had a hunch it would be for the best in the long run.

I briefly considered another sandwich and grabbed a beer instead. I got halfway through the second beer and decided I couldn't wait any longer. I climbed up the creaky old staircase to the second floor, leaving the Beatles behind on the main floor to sing about good times and good vibes aboard yellow submarine. I stood beside Henry's bed for a while, looking down at the spiral notebook on his nightstand with a pins and needles feeling in my guts. Front card was printed with a blank line that was labeled Subject. Across this line, Henry had printed in capital letters, tear to pieces, burn, and destroy.

I stared at those words and thought, maybe I should toss this thing in the garbage and just not worry about it. Maybe that would be better for everyone. But I knew that wasn't true. It wouldn't be better for everyone so much as it would be better for me. And this wasn't about me. It was about Henry. And I owed it to him to see this through to the end.

I took the notebook down to the kitchen table, drained my beer, and grabbed another one from the fridge. I felt like I was going to need it. I grunted. Here we go, and turned to the second page. It was dated July 10th, 2016, and had Henry's careful looping penmanship. Whatever was in store for me that night, Henry had seen it coming years ago. I took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and I read the first few lines.

I have a story to tell, kiddo. But this time it's a little different because you're actually in this story. Now, before I say anything else, you need to understand something. You are not alone here. This house is full of restless spirits. I sat back and contemplated the pros and cons are just grabbing my coat, pulling on my boots, and heading home. I was already on edge and that sentence was looking.

looking like a giant red flag. I downed along, swallowing my beer, and grumbled. Looks like Michelle was right. Fuck my life. I knew the leaving wasn't really an option, so I steeled myself for what might come next and kept on reading. I'm either dead or I'm on my way, so treat this little task like it's my dying wish.

Believe me, I would not. Never get you involved with this awful business if I could help it. But there's no one else I can trust to see this through to the end. I grumbled. Happy to oblige, Henry. And promptly choked on another mouthful of ears as I read the next two sentences. Henry had written. Back in January of 1981, me and your dad buried a body in the root cellar.

You have to get rid of it before the... The farm goes on the market. I staggered over to the sink and hacked up a small lung full of pale ale. My eyes watering and my breath wheezing out and tortured little gas between fits of coughing. When it's finally over, I panted. Holy fucking shit. I leaned against the counter while I caught my breath. I turned down the radio and closed my eyes.

What the hell did Henry mean when he wrote a body? Is it a human body? A dead person? I gasped. What the fuck, Henry? You want me to do what? Behind me, a rough slurring voice answered. Ain't you a writer or something, kid?

Can't you fucking read? I whirled around and tried to scream, but nothing came out but a faint hiss. My father was sitting at the table, staring at me from beneath his bushy eyebrows of looking naked contempt in his eyes. A poem all unfiltered was smoldering away between his fingers. He glowered at me and stirred the contents of his coffee mug with a tarned spoon. I could hear the whistling of his labor breathing.

And above that, the tinkling of the spoon bouncing off the sides of his mug. I croaked. What the fuck! And a familiar stench suddenly assailed my nostrils. in unpleasant mingling a stale tobacco, dark rum, and sour sweat. It wasn't a hallucination. That was my dad sitting there at the table. A man who'd been lowered into his grave over 20 years ago.

He was in the flesh and blackout drunk on a mixture of booze and primal rage, just like he'd always been while he was still alive. You got kind of fat around. the middle, didn't you? He said, and he sneered at my beer gut. A city man, that's what you look like. I bet those hands

of yours are softer than a baby's backside. Citymen are always soft. I choked down, lump in my throat, in a high quavering voice I told him. You're not real. This isn't real. Real enough, shithead. Dead shot back.

and all the strength ran out of my legs. I collapsed against the counter and grabbed the sink with both hands to keep myself from slithering onto the floor. Dad gave me a ferocious smile and took a big gulp from his mug. He tapped his ashes on the floor beside him and rasped. We had to bury him in the cellar. It was the middle of January, for Christ's sake. The ground was frozen.

There wasn't nowhere else to put the son of a bitch. I choked out. Dad? I don't... Is that really you? This vicious smile abruptly collapsed into a grimace of rage. He flicked his smoke onto the floor beside him, staring me down as he crushed it into the linoleum with the heel of his work boot.

He growled. You ain't no son of mine. And shoved his chair back from the table. The motion toppled over his mugs. filling a murky wave of rum and black coffee over Henry's notebook. He heaved himself to his feet and tucked in the tail of his work shirt with angry, jerking movements. Nope, you ain't no goddamn son of mine. I died alone.

And where were you, huh? Where the fuck were you at, boy? I felt the blood freeze in my veins as he came staggering around the table, advancing on me with his scarred up hands bawled into, fist. My brain was screaming at my legs to run, but I was frozen like a deer in the headlines. I simply couldn't comprehend that it was actually happening. Dad bellowed. What do you got to say for yourself, boy? And exploded forward with a bone crunch and left hook. I backpedaled a bare split second force punch, whistle past my chin and hammered into a cupboard door. The door bounced open and cracked down the

middle from the force of the blow. I ran for the liver room with dead hot on my heels, punctuating his words with wild haymakers as he pursued me through the house. He shrieked. You ran off, and I died alone. I laid on the floor with shit in my pants for three fucking days. And where were you at, boy? Where the fuck were you? I got a glance and blow off my shoulder, and I tripped over the coffee down, leaning on my back with my legs to get straight in the air. Dad loomed over me, and I started screaming, screaming like a teacettle at the top of my lungs, because the phantom no longer looked like my father is a middle-aged man. It had become the corpse I'd viewed at the visitation in the funeral home,

a skeletal caricature of my dad and a cheap gray suit. One eyelid was closed, where the other had worked free of its mourns and slid open, to expose a slim crescent of white. The thin planted a rubbery faux leather shoe on my chest and pinned me to the floor. It reached up with both hands and tore open the stitching that held its withered lips together. The sound of dead skin ripping free of the stitches made me squealed beneath the immovable weight of its foot. It leaned over me and crooned in a papery voice. By the time someone found my body,

body. The flies were laying eggs in my eyes. It was you who'd done that to me, boy. It was you. The cadaver pulled something out of the breast pocket of its suit and held it in front of my face. It was my dad's pocket knife. The same knife I had left on his grave back in the summer. It pulled open the rusted blade and grinned down to me, exposing blackened gums and rotten teeth. You better ask yourself something, boy. Who do you love? The gruesome apparition raised its arm to plunge the knife into my chest. And then it suddenly wasn't there anymore.

It was looming over me with its decaying smile and its grotesque post-mortem wink one instant. And it was gone the next. I've sprawled on the floor for no apparent reason, squirt. I went up at the ceiling with my hands clutching at a shoe that was no longer pinning me to the floor. I went entirely limp and spent a few moments just focusing on my breathing in and out until my racing heart dropped out of the red. When I could finally speak, I ran a dry tongue over my lips and quavered. What almighty fuck was that? I suspected the incident would not be my last encounter with the unknown that evening.

The old house was full of restless spirit, silent and unseen for many years. Tonight, they intended to be heard. I rubbed a painful nod on the back of my head and hauled myself to my feet, try my best looking all directions at once. The living room was a mess of broken knick-knacks and top of my feet. furniture. My only coherent thought was, it's time to get the fuck out of here, isn't it? Like right now. I grabbed my coat off the floor with shaking hands. I got as far as shoving one arm into a sleeve and then I froze as still as a statue. I could hear the tap running in the kitchen. I approached

the door with my coat still dangling from one arm, my neck prickling and the goose flash at the sound of heavy footsteps clumphing across the kitchen floor, I peeked around the door frame, bracing myself for whatever fresh horror was waiting for me, and I let out a surprise gasp. It wasn't some horrible boogeyman after all. It was Uncle Henry, but not as I'd seen him in the hospital, sick and salo and thin as a rail. It was Henry's I'd seen many years ago, still hearty and physically capable in the prime of his middle years. Henry was mopping up the puddle of coffee and booze on the table with a dish towel, scowling and grumbling a string of curses under his breath.

He looked up at me and shook his head. Oh, look at this place. He grunted. What a god-offal mess. Always cleaning up a mess. That was life with Wally. I tried to speak several times and failed. My tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth.

Finally, I managed to croak. Are you a ghost? Henry chuckled at me and waved the question away with his free hand. He snorted. Oh, I'm not a ghost. And bustled over to the sink to rinse out the towel. I don't look so good lying in that hospital bed, but I'm still breathing.

Now, you on the other hand, you look like you could use another big. Come in here and have a seat. Henry tossed the dripping spiral notebook into the trash and plopped a couple cans on the table. He sat down across from me and said, Well, my notebook got ruined. So I guess I'll just pick up the story where you left off. And now, Wally... I just saw him.

I interrupted and let out a weak little laugh. Michelle always thought this place was haunted. Did you know that? I guess she's right. I saw him and he blamed me, you know, for his death. Sternly Henry asked. Was it him saying that or was it you? I didn't know how to answer that, so I stayed silent.

Henry cracked open his beer without any visible difficulty and grinned. Look at that. I miss being able to use my hands. Shit. It's nice to be able to open. up a can and not even think about it. Now, as I was saying, Wally came back from the war,

absolutely full of rage. I've never met an angrier man in my whole life. Every now and then, all that steam would build up in his head. Yeah, more and more pressure until he'd eventually just explode. And that's exactly what happened that night. Wally exploded, and he left a hell of a mess to clean up.

By Jesus, one hell of a mess. I cracked open my beer and gulp down half of it in one go. I stifled a belch and said, Am I losing my shit? Is that what's happening here? Tell me what's going on, Henry, because I'm lost. Henry looked at me thoughtfully and patted my hand, he said. Well, we're in between, I suppose.

not here or there, just kind of, well, you know, in between. One foot in the past, one foot in the present. And what about the future? I asked. Henry gave me a rueful shake of his head and lit a cigarette with his old zippo. The future, he said. Can only be seen in dreams. Henry drank deeply from his can and groaned.

Ah, isn't that something? Shit. I haven't had a beer in months. God damn, I missed it. Anyhow, I was sitting out there in the living room watching TV with your aunt. Oh, I think your grandpa was snoring away in the chair beside us. And I don't know where your grandma was at. Probably in bed.

Anyhow, the phone starts ringing, and it's your dad. Right away I can hear in his voice that something is wrong. He says, Now, I'm calling from a gas station near the highway. I can't talk long. I need you to come out to Trenton Road about a mile east of Fairmont Drive. You'll see my truck parked on the side of the road. Don't tell nobody where you're going.

Just come out here right away. I need your help. Now, it was getting on towards 11 o'clock at night, and shit, that's a good half-hour drive from here. I says to him, way out there now? "'What's going on?' "'And he goes, I can't talk about it right now. "'Just get out here quick as you can, "'and bring a tarp with you, a big one.'

"'Now I didn't much feel like going out into that bitter cold, "'but I didn't have much choice. "'Wolly was more trouble than he was worth. "'But he was still, my brother. "'I told Eustace that old Johansson Sr. "'Got his tractor stuck in a ditch. and she just shook her head at me. I don't know if she believed me or not,

but I suppose she trusted I wasn't going to get up to anything bad. Any other time, she would have been right, but not this time. Henry paused every other slug from his can and in the silence. I heard the front door swing open with a click, a bang, and a faint squeal from a hinge and needed some oil. I stared at Henry and whispered, What's that?

Henry raised an eyebrow and said, I reckon it's part of the story. Go have a look. I reluctantly slid out of my chair and took a peek into the living room. My dad came creeping into view with a small child cradled in his arms. The child was me, and I appeared to be deeply asleep. I was wearing a dirty coat with a gaping tear on the right sleeve, and my flimsy pajama bottoms were tucked into a pair of winter boots.

My face was thin and drawn in the dark cave of my hood. Even in my slumber, my features were pinched with the strain of living in the volatile shadow of my father. Dad laid me on the couch and carefully pulled my boots off my feet. Covered me with a knitted blanket and stood there for a while, staring down in me with a haunted look in his eyes. Softly, he whispered, God help me, boy. I could just about kill you some days.

I could kill the whole lot of you. I never wanted any of you. Dad let out a long, shaky breath and pulled a flask out of his coat. He took a deep swig and grimaced as the liquor burned its way down his throat. It's the truth, he said, and nodded in agreement with himself. I don't even give a damn. It's the truth. Dad shoved the flask back in his pocket and draped another blanket over my sleeping form.

He backed away from the couch, stepping as quietly as possible, and he said, Don't wake up and come looking for me, boy. Don't you dare. He tiptoed away, stepping carefully as possible across the creaking floorboards. As he shut the front door behind him, the boy in the couch opened his eyes. He didn't know how to love. and remembered directly behind me and I almost jumped right out of my skin I whirled around and clutched at my heart with both hands

fucking hell man don't do that Harry took a step back and grinned don't have a goddamn connoption fit it's just me here come sit back down I snap just wait a second I remember they what happened in the live room just now I remember they I heard what dad said about

about how he wanted to hurt me sometimes. And I just thought it was a bad dream or whatever, you know? Holy shit. Softly, Henry said. He wasn't right in his mind, kiddo. Trust me, it didn't have anything to do with you or anyone else for that matter. Come on, sit down. Henry guided me back to the table.

Taking a moment to turn off the radio before he settled into his chair. When we were both seated, he said. Okay, where was I? Oh, right, the phone call. So I drive out all the way out there, and I find Wally's truck parked on the shoulder. His front bumper was banged up pretty bad, and I seen there was a car in the ditch on the other side of the road.

I jumped out of my truck and hollered, Holy hell, Wally, what happened? Did you get into an accident? "'Wallie shushes me and says, "'Listen to me, Henry, "'I've got myself a situation here. "'Okay, see? "'I was coming out of a parking lot back in town, right?

"'Well, that idiot in the ditch over there, "'he changed lanes and almost clogged right into me "'as I was starting to pull out. "'I yelled at him and gave him the horn. "'And I guess he didn't like that "'because he started following me. "'I thought he'd cooled to. down and stopped chasing me after a while, but he followed me all the way out here and cut in

front of me. He hammered on the brakes, I couldn't stop in time, so into the ditch he went, the stupid bastard. I stared at Wally for a second, just trying to process everything he was telling me, and I said, why the hell did you call me and not the cops? Is the guy okay? Wally says, Nah, he ain't okay, and he takes me over to have a look. I shone my flashlight into the ditch, and I says to him, Sweet Jesus, Wally, what have you done? Henry pressed his lips together and shook his head. He ran a hand through his hair and said,

Your dad, well, your dad murdered this guy. He beat him to death with his bare hands right there in the ditch. It was murder, plain and simple. I blinked at Henry and grunted. Holy shit. I had no idea this ever happened. Henry looked down at the table and muttered. No, you wouldn't.

Anyhow, I looked away from that mess down in the ditch and yelled, Fuck's sake, Wally, you really did it this time, didn't you? Why in fuck did you call me out here to help you conceal your crime? Jesus, Christ, man, what the hell am I supposed to do? Wally grabbed my arm and hollered, they'll give me life in prison. Is that what you want? You want me to get old and die in jail? It was him or me, Henry.

You've got to understand that. Well, I looked him square in the eye and I said, You're lying to me, Wally, aren't you? You were the one that almost caused the accident, right? and you started following the guy when he told you off. Am I right, you crazy goddamn idiot? Am I? Wally didn't say anything.

He just crossed his arms and turned away from me. I spun him around and yelled, why the hell were you in town at this time and night in the first place? You were getting hammered at the bar, weren't you? I could smell the booze on you right away. My God, Wally, you've got a wife and a kid at home, and you do something like this? Have you lost your fucking mind?

Wally got that look in his eyes. I'm sure you know exactly what I mean, and I said, What are you going to do, Wally? Are you going to kill me too? Your own brother? Henry paused the Witter's whistle, and I joined him. I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

But at the same time, I wasn't surprised in the least. And I always know my dad was probably capable of murder. When he came home from overseas, he brought the war back with him, and he never stopped fighting until the day he died. The enemy may have changed, but the rules of engagement always remained the same. I started walking away from him, and while he yelled, wait, where the hell are you going? I got into my truck, and I locked the doors. I rolled the window down a crack and told him,

This is it, Wally. It's the end of the line for me. I'm going to pretend I never came out here. Whatever happens now, you're on your own. Wally crowded up close to my window. His eyes as wide as saucers, and he says, If you do this, my kid is going to wake up tomorrow morning to an empty house. Don't do that to my boy, Henry. Please don't do that. I switched off the ignition and said, What? What do you mean? My role will be there? Wally looked away from me and slumped his shoulders. He shakes his head and goes,

She's out at her mother's place for a few days. The old galgall just had that gallbladder surgery, and she ain't feeling too good. I wasn't, you know, I wasn't aiming on being gone for long tonight, just a couple of drinks down at the bar and straight home. That's all I was going to do. Henry's eyes narrowed and his hands clenched into fists on the table. Well, when he said that, I don't know.

I just saw red. I jumped out of the truck and got right in his face and said, You left the kid by himself and went out drinking? He's what? Six years old? You stupid son of a bitch? What in the ever-loving fuck is wrong with you? Oh, I was heated, kiddo. You better believe it. I was ready to go toe to toe with that goddamn idiot.

I didn't even give a shit. I grabbed him up by the front of his coat and pulled him in close, and I said, This is what I'm going to do. I'm going to help you get rid of the body. Not for you, Wally, but for your wife and your son. I will forever have the stain of this horrible crime on my soul. but I'll do it just so that boy doesn't grow up without a dad, even if it's a sorry fucking excuse for a father like you.

And that's what we did. Henry murmured. We buried the poor bastard. He lit up another cigarette and squinted at me through the haze of smoke. We wrapped the body up in a tarp and I helped him drag it out of the ditch. Just as we were loading it in the back of Walling's truck, Some headlights popped up in the distance. I turned to Wally and said,

That's our cue to get the fuck out of here. Get in your truck and follow me. I drove out to that old shack you guys were renting at the time, and I told Wally that you were going to be staying with me and Eustace until your mom got back. Your dad didn't like that very much, but at that point I didn't much give a shit about what he liked or didn't like. I told him you're not fit to look after a child on your own.

You're a murderer for fuck's sake. You just shut the hell up and do as you're told. As Henry was saying, those bells went off in my head. I leaned forward to my chair and sputtered, I remember that too. I saw you yelling at him from my bedroom window. I saw you move the body. I jumped back into bed and pretend to be asleep

when I heard Dad coming into the house. Well, it's like I already said. Henry sighed. You're a part of this story, a big part, truth be told. If it weren't for you, I would have left Wally out on Trenton Road to sink or swim on his own. Anyway, like you said, we moved the body from his truck to mine, and I sent Wally in to fetch you out of your bed. He followed me out here to the farm, and we took the body down to the root cellar.

The ground was frozen harder than a rock out there, and I couldn't think of anywhere else that would be safe. I gaped at Henry with an uneasy mixture of shock and wonder. If I wasn't hearing it directly from you, Henry, I wouldn't believe it. Even after everything's happened since I walked through the door tonight, I still wouldn't believe it. Hell, I'll take one step further and say I'm not even convinced this in the dream or something. That's the problem with you, kiddo.

Henry observed with a dry smile. You won't believe in anything that doesn't. fit into your worldview, not until it literally chases you into the goddamn living room and knocks you down on your ass. You'd rationalize yourself into an early grave before you'd ever admit you're wrong. For such a smart kid, you can be awful fucking stupid. Henry got up from the table and pulled away the mat to lay on the floor in front of the sink, revealing a trap door to the root cellar. He pulled the handle and swung it open with a low and decided to the the ominous squeal.

He pointed to the square darkness at his feet and said, Well, this story ain't done yet. Come on down and I'll show you what happened next. I followed Henry down the creaking ladder and squinted around in the deep gloom below. The root cellar smelled strongly a damp earth

and beneath that, an unpleasant undertone of molded potatoes. I shivered in the damp air and called out. Henry, where'd you go? I waited for a few moments, listening for his footsteps near nothing but the low, static roar of silence. I fished my phone out of my pocket and clicked on the flashlight, revealing a few dusty shelving units and a small pile of crumbling bricks in the corner. Henry was gone.

I checked the only possible hiding spot, a space behind the stairs that led up to the double doors for outside access. But Henry was nowhere to be seen. I half-heartedly called his name again, but it appeared Henry had taken a side step somewhere. I was alone. I grumbled. Thanks, Henry. And shuffled over to click on the only light in the Ritz-Siller, a naked bulb jutting out of a fixture that had been nailed through a floor joist. I pulled the dangle and liked the twine that served as a switch, turned around, and took in a sharp breath.

Henry and my dad appeared in the flickering light, both of them leaning into a rectangular hole in the wall in the far side of the room. The cobwebs on the ceiling were gone, and abandoned shelving units were filled with mason jars full of preserves. It was January in 1981, and I was standing on the sidelines of the past. I jumped back and uttered a shrill, holy fuck! But neither one of them seemed to notice. I was observing a memory, but this time it wasn't one of my own. This memory belonged to Henry. The hole in the wall was roughly six feet long and two feet high.

The dirt they'd excavated was piled up nearby in a large mound, along with a stack of bricks they painstakingly removed with a hammer drill, a mallet, chisel. There's big mortar mix sitting on the floor, along with a bucket, trowel, and a few old milk jugs filled with water. Henry brought down the radio from the kitchen, set it in the corner, where it was softly warbler and a dollar part in tune in between

brief flickers of interference. It looked shiny and new in the dull gleam of the naked lap bulb. The body was laying beside the pile of dirt, wrapped tightly in a canvas tarp and bound with length of rope. I stared at it with an uncomfortable mixture of pity

and morbid fascination. I was looking at a dreadful family heirloom, the long-ago sins of a father that would now be visited upon his son. This should be deep enough. Henry panned as he pulled himself out of the hole with a grimace. He dropped his dirt spade and grabbed his lower back with both hands. Christ, my poor back! Okay, grab the other end and help me get it in there.

They wrestled their sag and burden into the hole and pushed back as far as it would go. Henry grunted They're almost done Fill it in Fix up that wall And then you can get the hell out of here Henry was interrupted By a long, muffled groan

And his words dried up instantly He shared a look of shock Dismay with my dad And backed away from the hole In a strangled whisper Henry asked What the hell was that? There was a burst of frantic rustling

inside the hole, accompanied by equally frantic whimpering. A man's voice gurgled. Don't do this. I got a wife and kids. Please don't. Haming back away from the hole with an expression of sheer horror on his face. He pointed my dad

with a shaking finger and croaked. Christ almighty, Wally. We almost buried him alive. Dad under the ferocious string of curses and spat. I thought he was dead. Fuck! Stringed to be

audible through his can of a shroud, the dying man pleaded. I won't tell nobody, let me go. I'll, I won't, for God's sake, please. I got wife and kids. I love me and I can't leave me alone in this world. Dead scowled at Henry, ignoring his victims please, and he growled. I ain't doing that kind of time, Henry. Not for this short, peckard, son of a whore.

He stabbed his spade into the pile of earth and started flinging dirt into a makeshift tomb. Henry barked. Stop it! And lunged to grab his arm. Dad twisted free and pushed Henry back with the handle of the spain. Shoving it into his gut with both hands and sending him sprawling onto the floor. He glowered down at Henry and said, It's too late to stop.

It's way too late. Henry scrambled to his feet. His breath was regularly heaving in and out of his chest and tears were starting to leak down the withered plains of his cheeks. What are you going to do? He demanded. Burry the poor bastard alive? Dad offered Henry the spade and gestured at the holes in the wall.

Tell you what, Henry? Go ahead and give him a good whack or two in the head. That ought to do the trick. Do it right now. We're staying the hell back and shut the fuck up. Alive or dead, this motherfucker is getting buried. There was an endless moment of oppressive silence. Time stood still as my father.

and uncle stared at each other. Both of them streaked with dirt and sweating beneath the wavering glare or the naked light bulb above their heads. I could see in Dad's face that he would do what he had to do in order to avoid getting arrested and to hell with the consequences. All bets were off and Henry knew it. The dead quiet between them was suddenly interrupted by the disembodied voice in the wall trembling and wavering and anguish.

The dying man shrilled at him. Who do you love, you rotten sons of bitches? I'll come for them, you hear me. I'll claw my way out of here and I'll drag you all to hell. Henry cringed away from their captive's impotent fury. But Dad shoved his arm into the hole and hauled the screeching and wriggling bundle onto the floor with one furious heave. He snarled. I'll be waiting for you, cuck, sucker.

and proceeded to batter his helpless rival skull into a pulp with the business end of the spain. I screamed. Dad, no! But this was only a memory. A fleeting figment of the past. And there was nothing I could do to stop him. Henry turned away and put his face in his hands. When it was over, one end of the dead man's canvas cocoon was completely so...

through with blood. It was also noticeably flatter than it had been before the assault. Don't think you can turn me in and come out of this clean, Henry. Dad grimaced. Because you won't, and that's a fact. Instead, think about your wife. Think about mom and her husband, our aunts and uncles, and all the rest of our kin. Then you tell me something, boy, is this dirty sack of dog shit worth more than them?

Is it worth more than you? your own goddamn life and returned to me. His expression somber and said, well, kiddo, I thought about it and I decided it wasn't worth more than any of them, not at that point. Just like that, my father was gone. The body was gone. The mason jars full of preserves were gone, and I was standing back in my own where and when. The tools, however, were still there. Along with the mortar mix and all the accessories, I was going to need him. Henry popped open his old craftsman toolbox and started pawing through the jumbled tools inside.

He said, I don't know what to tell you, kid. What's done is done. It came down to two options. I could call the cops and ruin everyone's life. Or I could help bury the body and pretend it never happened. So, that's what I did. Think whatever you want, but doing the right thing can be pretty fucking hard.

Doing the wrong thing is usually a lot easier. My nerves were still jittering from the brutal intensity of the scene I just witnessed. I could only shake my head and say, My God, Henry, what a fucking man. "'Hadner gave me a sour look and said, "'Cold you, didn't I? "'Wolly wasn't right in the head. "'After everything he'd seen and done in the war

"'and all the horrible shit we went through when we were kids, "'well, it broke him. "'He was a broken soul.' "'Hander found the bit he was looking for "'and secured it in the chuck of his hammer drill. "'He gave it an experimental whirl "'with a squeeze of the trigger and said, "'You gotta drill a bunch of a hole.

in the mortar. You can chisel the bricks out pretty easy after that. Try not to break too many in the process, huh? We got a few extra over there, but not a whole lot of them. Henry handed over the drill and nodded at the wall. Go to it, kid. I can't help you with this part. I examined the wall and realized that could still make out a distinct rectangle where they'd remove the bricks all those years ago, even though four decades passed by since that night. The mortar in this area was slightly less dingy than the rest of the wall, and it looked like a very rushed and sloppy job had been done with the bricklaying work, not by a professional, but too desperate men, both of them staring damnation in the eyes as they sealed away a murder

victim in the middle of the night. I traced the outline with my finger and said, I've got a question for you, Henry. upstairs in the kitchen. Didn't you say people can see the future in their dreams? Because Michelle had a really bad nightmare involving me in this root cellar. Henry gave me a guarded look and shrugged. They can.

He agreed in a carefully neutral tone. But I wouldn't worry about that too much if I were you. You're still mostly in the physical world, the here and now. You've only got a few toes dangling in the water, if you understand what I mean. What's buried behind those bricks, it's long gone to somewhere else. There's nothing in there but a dried-out husk, maybe a little residue of the past. Even if his spirit is still hanging around, I don't think it could hurt you. Well, not in the physical world.

I looked him in the eyes and said, Are you sure about that, Henry? Are you really? Because you don't seem very sure about that to me. Henry gave me a side eye and opened his mouth to answer when nothing came out. He clutched his throat with an alarmed expression and started making a horrible gagging sound. I said, hey, what's going on? I reached out to put my hand on his shoulder,

but Henry abruptly winked out of existence with a slight breeze and a faint popple sound. I looked around wildly and called out, Henry! Are you okay, man? Uncle Henry! But there was no answer. I was alone in the rut sailor once again. But that wasn't true, was it?

I wasn't really alone. I had company waiting for me on the other side of the wall. I became aware that my phone was ringing in my pocket. It stopped ringing as I was fishing it out. And I observed it dismay that I missed a number of calls from Michelle, as well as a multitude of text messages. She was undoubtedly freaking the fuck out, and she wasn't exactly unjustified to do so either. I breathed. Nah, fuck me.

And I called her back. Hey, babe. Hey, sorry that I... Why, what are you... Michelle hollered. I stammered. I'm really sorry. I accidentally left my phone up on the second floor, so I didn't hear it ringing.

Everything's all good. good over here, I promise. What's going on with you? Is everything okay? There was hesitation on the other end of the line. She cleared her throat and said, I closed my eyes and groaned. Ah, fuck, shit. Okay, thanks for letting me know. I'm sorry I didn't answer the phone. I'll make sure it's in my pocket for now on.

There's another hesitation. And then Michelle, I asked. Are you when you answered the phone? What's going on? Or I could respond, the radio in the kitchen popped down and started blasting away at top volume. I had heard a small shriek and jumped high enough to bang the crown of my skull on one of the exposed floor drolless overhead. I saw a bright flash of light go off somewhere behind my eyeballs, and my phone tumbled from my hands as I crumpled to the floor.

I spotted out some random permutations of the word fuck and crawled over to my phone. I could faintly hear Michelle demanded to know what was going on. I hollered. Look, I gotta go, okay? We'll talk later, bye. I shoved the phone into my pocket and peered up the ladder. All I could see was a square section of yellow and ceiling tiles. The bullies were on the radio, and Stormer Rice was hollering,

Who do you love? Over a cacophony of pounding drums. I gathered all the tattered courage I could muster and climb the ladder. I had no idea what was about to happen, but I had a feeling. It was going to be very bad. First thing I saw with my head poked up above the floor level was a pair of clunky-looking orthopedic shoes. They were attached to a pair of swollen ankles at bulge like oversuffed sausages within the confines of some dingy of compression stockings. It was my aunt used to...

She'd been dead for almost two years, but there she was. sitting down for a cup of tea with a radio blasting away on the table beside her. She smiled at me, turned down the volume and said, I'm sorry, dear, but I wanted to get your attention, and I don't like going down there. Come on up and have some tea. There's something I want to tell you. I cautiously sat down across from her and took a careful sip from the steaming mug in front of me.

It was Earl Gray with two sugars and a healthy splash of evaporated, milk, the aunt used to special. I set my cup back into the saucer and stammered, I don't know what to say. It's good to see you. I've missed you a lot since you've been gone. I had a million questions, but she shushed me with raised finger and said, I'm here to make a confession.

I knew about the body they buried in the cellar. I knew all that time, and I never said a word to anyone. I was startled enough to almost choke on my tea. I gaped at her and said, You knew about that? And kept it a secret? Ma nodded solemnly and patted the back of my hand. Whether she was a ghost, an illusion, or just an echo of the past,

her touch was real. When Henry got off the phone that night, she continued. I took one look at him and I just knew it was something to do with her dad. I figured he'd gotten himself arrested for drunk driving and he needed Henry to come get him. I mean, why the heck would Johanison be out in his tractor that late on a cold winter's night? Come on. I murmured. Henry wants to protect everyone around him.

He's always trying to shield people from harm. Maybe so, but he's a piss poor liar. Anyway, he didn't get to bed until almost five in the morning. The next day, I went down there to get a jar of beats for some. supper and I saw the work he did to the wall. I thought why the heck did he do that? I went back up the ladder with my

beats and I heard them talking on the radio about some guy who went missing the night before. Right away I knew what happened. I was sick to my stomach over it but I honestly didn't know what to do so I didn't do anything at all. I just pretended

I didn't know what was down there and carried on as usual. I rubbed my temples and said I guess I should be surprised, but at this point, I'm not sure if I can be surprised anymore. So that was it? You just forgot about it and life went on? Eustace gave me a frown at disapproval and said, Come on now.

That's a bit of a stretch, isn't it? I never forgot. I just decided it was best left unsaid. What was I supposed to do? Call the police and turn everyone in? Life isn't that simple, my boy, but actions do have consequences, don't they? She sipped at her tea and nodded at me, her eyes full of sorrow. All those years, I went down there, it ignored that patch of brickwork on the wall.

I'd fetch whatever I needed and just pretend I didn't see the damn thing. But I could always feel it, you know? I could always feel, I don't know. A presence, I suppose, and it was angry. Her words faltered. I reached across the table to grip her hand and prompted. What happened? I went down to the cellar one day to give the shelves of dusting.

While I was working away down there in the gloom, I heard something. A noise behind the wall. Used this eyes went dark. She squeezed my hand. and of surprising strength and wiped away a trickle of tears. Quietly, she said. It was scratching. Something was scratching at the bricks on the other side.

I put my ear up against the wall and listened and, oh my word, I was so scared. I told myself it was just a rat, but I knew that wasn't true. And then it spoke to me. Usses' lips pressed together in a trembling line. She gripped my hand even hard and leaned in close. Her voice dropped into a whisper. Its voice crackled like dead leaves. She shuddered.

It said, I've been waiting a long time, and I started to scream. I flew up the ladder as fast as I could, but my foot slipped on the top rung. I fell and had a massive stroke when I hit the ground. The last sound I heard was its laughter And then I was gone I stared at a ma'an horror And she stared back with tears running down her face She said

I was stupid to go down there in the first place This house is full of restless spirits Angry spirits And it was wrong for me to help them cover up The horrible thing they did to that man I deserved what happened to me I was a stupid old woman I shook my head vigorously and exclaimed,

No, don't say that. That's not true. None of this was your fault. You didn't. Just a stupid old bitch. She sobbed. And my words died on my lips. Used to smile through her tears and nodded.

Stupid and unworthy of life. Just like the rest of you. Cowards and murderers. We all deserve to die. Her thin, delicate fingers were crushing my hand like a vicarious. I tried to pull away and she clamped down even hard, grinding my knuckles together. I whimpered. Aunt Eustace, you're hurting me.

Her smile curled into an ugly sneer and she crooned. You better ask yourself something boy. Who do you love? I shoved my chair back with my legs and tried to yank my hand away, but I couldn't break free of her grasp. Aunt Eustace started collapsing into herself in a rapid time lapse and natural mummification. The hand had held me pinion to the table shriveled into a wizened claw, and her eyeballs withered into non-existence, disappearing inside the dark tunnels or her eyes saw. I gawked at this gruesome spectacle with my tongue pasted with the roof of my mouth,

and then I started to scream. The left side of the grizzler phantom's head suddenly dimmed beneath a blow from an invisible weapon, a second enemy. And several more in rapid succession creaking landscape of dragged ridges and spotted fracture lines. The final blow caved in its skull entirely, leaving behind a horrific concavity in its wake. The dreadful apparition threw back its head and howled. Won't be long before the old bastard is cooled in the brown. beside me boy not long now the movement of its jaw triggered a catastrophic collapse on the ruin side of its head whispered flakes dried skin floated into the air and the bone beneath crumbled into fragments they tumbled down

and skidded across a smooth surface of the tabletop leaving behind a gaping crater in their wake it shrieked a peel a lunatic laughter and bellowed he'll be cold in the ground just like Be cold and dead. I jumped out of my chair and pulled against his grip with all my mind, still screaming at the top of my lungs. I abruptly found myself pinwheeling my arms for balance as I helpless to stumble backwards. The awful apparition had winked out of existence. It was real enough to bruise my hand one second. And then it was gone the next.

I stepped into thin air and then fell through the open, trapped door, plummeting seven feet to the floor of the red side. I landed on the hard-packed dirt floor flat on my back. And I laid there for a while. Curled up on my side as I struggled to catch my breath from the impact. I'd also managed to bang my shin on the ladder on the way down and it hurt like a mad bastard. I clenched at it with both hands and rocked back and forth on the floor. I moaned. Fucking ghost, you can all kiss my ass.

There was suddenly a figure leaning over me with its hand out. I shrank away from it. My hands flailing to ward it off, and it exclaimed. Jesus Christ, what the hell happened to you? I almost wept in relief when I realized it was Henry. I sat up straight and weased. You said it couldn't hurt me, Henry. Bullshit!

Some crazy shit just happened and fucking hurt a lot. I said it couldn't hurt you in the physical world. Henry corrected. When you slip in between, maybe that's a different story. Hey, don't be looking at me like that. I'm a farmer, not an expert on the Great Beyond. Call one of those psychic hotlines if you want a goddamn expert. Henry helped me to my feet and examine the top of my head.

He said, You're bleeding, kiddo. You whack your noggin off something? I touched the sore spot on my skull and winced. My fingers came way tacky with drying blood. I could feel smears of it hard. and in my hair and on my forehead. Yep, I sure did.

I sighed. Okay. So I get this thing out of the wall, and then what? What do I do with it? You remember when you cut up that birch tree last summer? I hung around after you took the tractor back to the barn and piled up a big mound of branches. They should be good and dry by now.

Take the body out there and burn it. There's lots of dead wood lying around if you need more. Burn it until there's nothing left and dump the ashes in the creek. It's the only way to be sure. I ground my poems against my weary eyes and asked, Is this the right thing to do, Henry? Be honest. Is it?

Henry considered my question, frowning to himself as you've reasoned out his answer. He said, No, I don't think so. The right thing to do would be to call the police. But I'm not asking you to do the right thing here, kiddo. The man we buried behind those bricks, shit, he's many years gone.

There's nothing we can do that would bring him back. The memories our family created in this house, the love and the light we've given and received on this land for so many years, Well, if you call the cops, all of that will be gone, and there'll be nothing left but sorrow. So it comes down to one of two choices, kid. You can do the right thing and harm our future, or you can do the wrong thing and preserve our past. What's it going to be?

That's a hell of a choice, Henry? I croaked. Why did you put me in this position? gave me a pity and look. He crossed his arms and said, People face impossible choices every day. We only have the fear in our souls and the hope in our hearts to guide us to the right decision. Life is rarely simple, and it's never easy. But that's why it's so precious, kiddo. When you're alive, every second of every day is a drop of gold sliding through your fingers.

It's in your hands, and then it's gone. No matter how hard you try, you can't hold on to it. Not a single moment in time. I rub my temples and closed my eyes. My head hurt like a bastard. My portion was throbbing away something awful. I nodded, Henry. My eyes still closed, and I said,

I'll dig him out of there and burn him, Henry. I'll do it for the same reason you buried him. Because it's easier than the alternative. I opened my eyes and I discovered myself standing in the past once again. A silent observer looking on from the outskirts of reality. At this point, the deed had been done and they were cleaning up the tools and silence. There was a rectangular patch of freshly mortar bricks in the wall. Behind that, the newly interior corpse of a murder victim.

Dad stopped what he was doing, take a few nips from his flask. He turned to Henry who appeared to be pointedly ignoring him and said, It's probably best if we never talk about this again, if you know what I... Shut up. His face was ashen and exhausted beneath the layer of grime. He looked diminished. Just shut the hell up. Henry's eyes straight over Dad's shoulder, and they widened in surprise.

I looked up inside the trap door was being held open a few inches. just wide enough to allow a small face to peer down on what was going on below. Henry shook his head almost imperceptively. His gaze glowering an unspoken command and the door immediately eased shut. Dad looked behind him and said, What's you staring at? Henry waved him off. A dismissive gesture that was full of contempt and he turned away from him.

Never mind. He muttered. Look, I want you to get the hell. out of this house, and don't come back for a good long while. When your boy wants to come out for a visit, I'll drive over there and fetch him myself. I don't think you need to be coming around here no more. My father shook a finger at him and said, You can't tell me I ain't welcome here. This farm don't belong to you. It belongs to Ma. Uncle Henry pulled himself up straight and tall. He walked up to my father until they were almost

nose to nose and said, I just saved you from life in prison. I'll tell you whatever the fuck I want. And while I'm at it, I'll tell you something else. Ma is ashamed of what you've become. You

shame her, Wally. Now turn yourself around. Climb up that fucking ladder and get the hell out of this house. Dad flinched back from the venom in Henry's voice. His lower lip trembling. He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and reluctantly did as he was told.

As he disappeared up into the kitchen and returned to me and said, I don't know how much you saw that night, kiddo, but I'm sorry it happened. I never wanted that. My throat suddenly felt constricted. I bit my lip to keep from trembling and look down to my feet. I woke up and thought I heard voices in the cellar. I could see light shining through the crack around the trap door, so I opened up a few inches to take a look. I saw Dad hit the tar up with a shovel.

I didn't understand what was happening, but it scared me. I think I kind of knew what was going on, deep down, but it was too much for a kid that age to process. I watched you bury the tarp in the wall. I had a feeling it was supposed to be a secret. When he looked up at me, I thought I was going to be in big trouble for sure. Henry was quiet for a while and then he muttered. Well, shit.

I'm sorry that happened, kid. I really am. I could remember it now. Being huddled on my side on the cold kitchen floor. Watching in the dark as my arm trembled against the way to the door. I laid there on the cold linoleum and spied on them until Henry happened to look up made eye contact, at which point I dropped the door as softly as I could and scamper back to the couch.

Less than a minute later, Dad blundered past and let himself halt the front door. I pretended to sleep for a while, petrified that I was in the deepest shit possible for spying on their secret errand. At some point my pretend sleep turned into the real thing. And when I woke up the next morning, I decided it had all been just a dream. It was easier that way. I could feel Henry watching me. I looked up and tried to smile.

It didn't work, but I could see that Henry appreciated the effort. I thought I was watching your memories, Henry. But they were actually my own. But that doesn't explain everything else that happened, didn't I? Those were memories. They were something else entirely. Henry gave me a grim look. He said,

No, those weren't memories. They were restless spirits. Open this wall and helped them find some rest. Help us all find some rest. Just remember something, kiddo. The ghosts at haunt houses and castles, they might be scary to look at, but they're not dangerous.

They're forever stuck in between, and you should feel pity for them. The dangerous ghosts are the ones that haunt your conscience. They're the restless spirits of your own devising, and they'll destroy you if they can. Henry pointed at the wall and said, Well, that's all I got, kiddo. The rest is all up to you.

It's your story now. I reached out to him with an unsteady hand and whispered, Can't you stay and help me? I'm really full. fucking scared, Henry. I can't do this alone. Henry's lips twitched in a sad smile and he shook his head. I'm lying in a bed 40 miles away

with a tube shoved down my throat. I might die tonight or next week. Or maybe I'll live to see my hundredth birthday. I don't know. I don't have any idea when it'll happen, but it will happen. I won't be here forever, and you have to accept that. Henry took my hand in his strong callous grip, gave it a squeeze, and then he was gone.

This time he wouldn't come back. For the rest of this heroin journey, it would just be me, a skeleton wrapped in a rotten tarp, and my own restless spirits. I got ten minutes into the painstaking process of drilling into the mortar before I realized I didn't have to be careful with the bricks. I could simply go and buy some new ones. Henry wouldn't have approved, but Henry wasn't there. I was on my own.

I grabbed a club hammer out of Henry's toolbox and went to work. Twenty minutes later, there was a pile of earth and rubble on the floor, and I was reaching into the hole to brush dirt away from the rotten tarp. It was riddled with small holes made by burrowing scavengers, and it was stiff from the excretion. of the decaying process. I gingerly hauled the tarp out of the hole grimacing at the smell,

and I marveled at how light it was. No matter who we were in life, we all ended up as big bones, buried and forgotten. I made a quick mental checklist to what to do next. I would go out to the barn, pull out Henry's trailer,

and hook it up to the ball hitch on the ATV. While the ATV was warming up, I'd scare up a can of gasoline, maybe some old rags and make a torch. My trainer thought was interrupted by a sudden burst of activity in my feet. I looked down and gasped. Oh, holy fuck! The body was moving around inside the tar. A rusty blade punched through the canvas and I stagger backward.

A jagged shriek ripping out my throat. The blades heard saw and a long rip down the length of the tar. I ran for the ladder screaming at the top of my lungs every step of the way. I jumped down in the first rung in a face appeared above me. A small face with wide, terrified eyes. It was me as a child, confused and frightened at the point of tears. Get in trouble. The boy sniffled, and he slammed the door shut on my screams.

I pounded up the splurny wood and screeched. You didn't do anything wrong! Open up! Left me to die. voice said behind me, and my heart dropped into my stomach. It was my father who was crawling out of that foul canvas coffin, a grin and scarecrow in a discount funeral suit. He lurched to his feet and pointed at me with his knife. One eye closed, and the other eye winking open just enough to show a thin crescent a white. It said,

I never wanted you, boy, and started shuffling forward. The knife still leveled in my heart. I used to daydream about grabbing you by the hill and bashing your head against the wall. I should have done it when I had the chance. If you never wanted me, why would you care if I wasn't there when you died? My question stopped him dead in his tracks. I nodded and wiped away my tears with my sleeve. You don't have an answer for that, do you? You died all alone and it's not my fault.

Because that's what you wanted. I picked up the shovel and advanced on it. I was still crying, but now I was angry too. I was fucking furious. Even if I was there to call the ambulance. I said my voice shaking with rage. Even so, there's no guarantee that it could have saved you. It wasn't my fault.

You're gone, you mean old bastard. And you know what? I don't miss you. Then I fell from the apparition's fingers. You shrink away from it. His hands held out in supplication. He moaned. You ain't worth a shit, boy.

You were never worth a shit. Maybe not, I said. But I'm alive, motherfucker. I'm alive, and there's love in my heart. I love my wife, and I love Uncle Henry. And do you want to know something else, you rotten son of a bitch? I love my son. myself too. Dad dropped to his hands and knees in the dirt. He creamed his neck to look up at me

and he paned. You're no son of mine. I nodded in agreement and raised the shovel. I never was, I said, and I swung it as hard as I could. Dad flickered out like a wavering candle flame the shovel whistled through the empty space. It bounced off the floor, kicking a up a spray of dirt and sending unpleasant shivering up my arms. I dropped the shovel and cried out. Fuck you. Fuck me! My phone started ringing.

It was Michelle. I fumbled it out of my pocket with numb, throbbing hands and sniffled. Hey, honey, I just wanted you to know that I fucking love you. I really, really do. She sputtered. Call away from dialing 911. I smiled through my tears and said, I'm better than okay. I'm pretty fucking fantastic.

I started to laugh, and the fact that I couldn't explain why I was laughing made me laugh even harder. I laughed and sniffled and assured that I was fine. The house was fine. And all things under the sun were just fine and dandy. The ghosts were no longer restless, and everything would be fine. I woke up on the couch late that next morning, blinking around at the living room with a sour stomach and a decent pounder of a headache.

My clothes reek like a funeral pyre. I squinted at the sunshine streaming through the window and decided I was done with drinking. It would be hard, but as Henry had said the night before, life is really simple, and it's never easy. So bright, it was going to be a bit of a drag. But it had to be better than waking up and feeling like that all the time. Michelle called while I was cleaning up the mask from the night before,

pushing a mop with one hand while I sipped at a coffee with the other. She said, I called actually glad I stayed home because the hospital just called with some good news. Henry's doing a lot better today. He's still sedated, but they said we can come see him. I dropped a mop on the floor, to toss my clenched fist in the air and hollered. Yes! That's great news!

I'm just finishing up a few things right now, but I can meet you at the hospital around 2 o'clock. Michelle said. Sure, of course. After pause, she added, I think there's some details you're not telling me, and I'm dying to know what they are, but I'll leave it alone for now. Maybe you can fill me in on what happens someday. I caught a glance at my reflection in the big mirror beside the front hall closet, and I smiled grimly at the smears of dry blood on my forehead. I said,

Someday, but definitely not today. Okay, see you too, babe. Love you. I hustled through the rest of the cleanup, then jumped in the shower and washed away all the blood and grime. I had a pretty good goose egg on top my head, but my hair seemed to cover it up well enough. It's not as thick as it used to be, but I'm not bald just yet. There's still a few good years left in me, and I intend to live them to the fullest. I almost walked out the door before I remember the garbage needed to go out in the morning pickup.

I popped open the lid and saw his notebook laying on top of the bag, still damp from being soaked in a mixture of black coffee and booze. I looked at the words Henry scrawled on the front cover, and I realized they were instructions for the disposal of the notebook. Before I left for the hospital, I took it out to the burn barrel and did as Henry had requested. I tore the book into pieces and burned it into a fine dust and of ashes. Henry was unconscious, drugged into dreamland so he wouldn't fight against tube in his throat. He looked painfully thin and ill, but he was alive.

Now was all the matter. We stood by his bedside for a while, thinking our thoughts and holding hands in silence. He'll make it. Michelle murmured. Henry's larger than life, and twice as loud. He'll probably outlive us all. She squeezed my hand and I wends. She held it up for examination and exclaimed.

What happened here? These bruises are nasty. They're kind of shaped like fingers. Oh, that's a long story. I said, and I gently pulled my hand free from her inquisitive probing. It's fine. It hurts a little, but it's fine. Um, do you mind if I have a minute alone with Henry?

I know he can't hear me, but I got a few things I'd like to say to him, and... I trailed off, looking at her expectantly, and Michelle gave me a solemn nod. I'll go get some stuff from the vending machine down the hall. I could use a drink. Do you want anything? I shook my head. Michelle said... Okay. See you in a bit? Gave me a quick hug before she left the room.

When she was gone, I looked down at Henry and said... I don't think you can hear me, Henry, but maybe you can. I don't know. I just want you to know that it's done. I'll have to come back later with some bricks and fix that wall. But I still got lots of time to do that. The farm isn't going up for sale tomorrow. Henry made no indication that it could hear anything I was saying, but I plowed on regardless.

I also want to thank you for everything you've done for me over the years. You always get all angry and embarrassed Whenever I try to tell you that But you need to understand how much it means to me I'm glad you were there last night Even it was only in my imagination I needed your voice and your presence I needed your strength

You have to do something for me now okay You've got to come back to us Henry And stay a little while longer Don't leave us behind, not just yet. There's still so much that needs to be done. I held my breath and watched his face, hoping for a twitch of the lips or fluttered the eyelids, some indication that he could hear me. Nothing happened.

Henry was deep under the surface, wandering in between this world and the next. Rotterless and alone. Come on, Henry. I breathed. Give me something, man. Give me a sign. I was just about to give up when I saw movement from the corner of my eye. It was his hand.

It started to twitch, and then a clenched into a loose fist. I smiled and gripped his fist in both hands. That's it, Henry. Just a sign. That's all it. His fist relaxed. I felt something soft and granular pour into my cupped hands. It was a handful of dirt, and I'll bet a million dollars.

I know exactly where it came from. It smelled like a damp basement. And beneath that, a faint but pervasive odor of molded potatoes. I said, Thank you, Henry. And I flushed the dirt down the toilet. I carefully brushed the rest off the bed sheets.

And then Michelle was walking back into the room with a bottle of dought spry in the magazine. I stole it from the waiting room. She explained. I wanted something to read if we're going to be here for a while. I took her arm and said, Nah, I don't think that's necessary. I already said my peace.

Let's go. I'm tired and I feel like shit. We'll come back tomorrow. Michelle quickly lost me in traffic on the way home. I was content to put the car on autopilot and put along in slow lane. I had a lot to think about. By the time I got home, Michelle was putting the finishing touches on a couple mugs of hot chocolate. We took them out to the balcony and watched the sun sink beneath the horizon.

So, you really fucking love me, do you? Michelle smirked and I gave her an embarrassed grin. Yeah, I do. I agreed. I really fucking love you. I love life. She leaned against me and said, I'm sorry about the farm.

I know you wanted to live there someday. It's important to you, that place. I shrugged and said, Fuck it. There'll be another farm. We'll make new memories there, good ones. We'll start off a fresh. Michelle gave me a kiss and said,

Well, I'm glad on both counts. I fucking love you too, you big weirdo. Come on, let's go inside. I'm cold. We retreated back into the. warmth of our cozy apartment. Outside the sliding glass door, darkness fell over a world that isn't always

as it seems. A world where reality is subjective and tall tales can sometimes come true. In time, Henry would get well enough to leave the hospital and he would receive an unexpected visitor from the distant past, a very unwelcome visitor with a tale of their own to tell.

But that is a story for another time. Until then, from Henry and I to all of you, please take care of yourselves. And if you ever find yourself in a tight spot, remember to ask yourself something. Who do you love? The answer? Might just save your life someday.

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