Intentional Haunting

By Jake Bible

Wyattsville, Oregon –The Most Haunted Place In America.

For fourteen year old Cotton Ten-nison, the Wyattsville ghosts are not the horrors he fears. The living are far more scary.

As the town outcast, Cotton suffers the abuse of his drunk father and the torment of the local bullies - a group known as the Red Meat Boys.

His only refuge is The Wyatt House, an abandoned house at the end of his street, a house filled with ghosts and specters that the town would prefer didn’t exist.

When several teenagers are brutally murdered, the town council decides to turn the Wyatt House over to a family of ghost hunters with questionable intentions. Here begins Cotton’s struggle to find a way to save the house, his ghostly friends, and the entire town before an evil force de-stroys them all.

Intentional Haunting is a Teen horror novel that mixes the tender macabre of Neil Gaiman’s The Graveyard Book, the suspense of Stephen King’s The Shining, and the dark humor of Tim Burton’s Beetlejuice. It is the personal story of a young man surviv-ing the abuse of a town that has aban-doned him, a young man that will be faced with a choice when the fate of Wyattsville rests in his hands. Will he be able to look beyond his resentment to save the town that has caused him such pain or will he walk away, just as the town walked away from him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Permuted
• Release date: Oct 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781618683915

Jake Bible

Jake Bible lives in Asheville, NC with his wife and two kids. He is the author of many published short stories and the creator of a new literary form: the Drabble Novel. DEAD MECH represents the introduction to the world of the Drabble Novel, a novel written 100 words at a time. The Americans represents the sidequel to DEAD MECH. Jake really likes making s%#t up, even brand new words and literary forms. He also has many stories available as ebooks, including the collection Bethany And The Zombie Jesus: A Novelette And 11 Other Tales Of Horror And Grotesquery (also available in print) and 31 Days Of Halloween. Learn more about Jake and his work at www.jakebible.com. Links to his Facebook fan page, Twitter and his forum can be found there, as well as his weekly drabble release, Friday Night Drabble Party, and his weekly free audio fiction podcast.

Book preview

1

"Wyattsville, Oregon. The Most Haunted Town In America! the massive banner read. Population—Living: 834, Dead: Unknown! Welcome to the Halloween Festival!"

They need to update that thing, Sean Wyatt said as he looked up at the well-worn banner that hung across Main Street. The same one was used every year just before and during the town’s annual festival that celebrated its long history of supernatural encounters. It’s looking kinda ratty.

Cotton! Connie Tennison yelled as she snatched her one year old son by the arm before he could dash into the road. "Don’t you ever run off like that!

Jeez, sis, chill, Sean said. The boy’s got a natural gift. Don’t hold him back.

He has to learn he can’t just run anywhere he wants, Connie snapped. He’s only one. His brain hasn’t caught up with his body.

The toddler, who had stopped toddling weeks before and switched to full out sprinting, started to blubber and whine as he hopped back and forth from one chubby leg to another.

Look, Sean grinned. He’s just raring to go.

It’s a good thing you don’t have kids, Connie said. Or they’d be flat as a pancake.

Trick or treat! a group of kids shouted as they ran up to Connie and Sean.

Watch him, Connie said as she let go of Cotton’s hand and reached into the large brown bag filled with Halloween candy she carried to grab a couple of pieces for each kid. The kids thanked her politely, then went in search of the next adult bearing goodies. As was the tradition in Wyattsville, all trick or treating was done out on the street, not door to door. It got the townsfolk out to visit with each other. And it made the festival look huge and busy for the tourists who came to hear about the ghosts, haints, spooks, and specters that haunted the closets, cellars, and attics of Wyattsville.

This place is a kid’s dream, Sean said as he watched the kids run off. Even with the constant drizzle you just can’t kill the spirit of Halloween in this town.

The siblings followed as Cotton waddled across the grass of the city square, heading for another toddler who was busy cramming as much unwrapped candy into its mouth as possible. Cotton tried to get at some, but Sean took him by the hand as Connie knelt next to the other toddler.

No, Scott, Connie said as she pulled the wrapped candy from the toddler’s mouth. You’ll choke. Connie looked at the woman sitting close by on a bench, her eyes half-lidded, staring into space. Loretta?

The woman didn’t respond. A second toddler, a year older, squirmed and struggled on her lap.

Loretta? Sweetie? Connie asked as she touched the woman’s shoulder. Are you okay? Connie lifted the little boy from her and set him on the ground. Watch them, Connie said to her brother, Sean, who still held Cotton’s hand.

I don’t need no one to watch my kids, Loretta’s husband snapped as he walked up and roughly pushed Connie away. She’s just having a spell like she does. Mind your own damn business, Tennison.

Hey! Sean barked, getting between the man and his sister. Back off, Williams!

Or whatcha gonna do, Sean? Marshall Williams growled, his nose pressed against Sean’s. Really. What. Are. You. Going. To. Do?

Sean, where’s Cotton? Connie said, her eyes panicked and afraid. Sean! Where’s Cotton?

Her brother looked down and realized he was holding the hand of a little girl dressed like Fiona from Shrek.

Ah, crap, he said. Whose is this?

The screeching of tires and the honking of horns made Connie shriek and run into the street, her hands held out to stop the few cars that were moving through the throng of festival goers. The two Williams toddlers were on the curb, Scott on the ground crying while the older one, Cab, stood by and laughed.

"Cotton!" Connie screamed as she saw her son dart around a braking VW Beetle and then roll out of the way of two kids riding their bikes next to the sidewalk. Cotton tumbled against the concrete gutter and banged his head, then sat up quickly, his face scrunched and angry. He didn’t make a sound until he caught sight of his mother. Then the wail made half the crowd cringe and duck, wondering what strange bird was about to pluck them from their shoes.

Oh, Cotton! Oh, baby. Oh, my little darling. Oh sweet, sweet boy. Oh, God. Oh, you scared me. Oh, wow, Connie whispered in his ear over and over as she lifted him from the ground and held him tightly to her chest.

Damn, Sean grinned guiltily. Kid does have a mouth on him.

Connie lashed out and slapped him across the cheek. Damn you, Sean! He almost died!

Crap, sis, sorry, Sean said, rubbing his jaw. He got away from me. He didn’t almost die. Did you see those moves? He’s got lucky legs. Bet that’s his gift. Lucky legs.

He’s one! Connie yelled as she stomped away. He doesn’t have any gift! He’s one, dammit!

Sean just stood there among the crowd, his mouth hanging open, as his sister huffed away. He watched her leave Main Street and round the corner.

He was fine, Sean said to no one. It’s his gift. I swear.

Connie left her pouting brother behind as she made her way through the small town to home. She nodded at neighbors and friends, former schoolmates, and folks she knew from the local shops, but didn’t stop to chat as Cotton had started to fuss loudly. She walked faster, hoping to outrun the tantrum she knew was coming. She was relieved as she rounded the last corner onto her street and saw the warmth of her porch light glowing in the October night.

With Cotton near screaming as she held him tight to her body, Connie started to unlock her front door then found it already slightly open. She cautiously pushed it open more with her foot.

Hello? she called out. Who’s there?

She heard the distinct sound of a beer cracking open from the kitchen and her blood went cold. She took a deep breath and put on a big smile then walked into the kitchen.

Malcolm? she asked, seeing her husband sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by empty beer cans. I thought you were in La Grande tonight?

Account canceled the appointment, Malcolm Tennison slurred, then belched. Figured I should just come on home and see my family.

Well, you knew we were at the festival, Connie said. Why didn’t you come find us right away?

Malcolm eyed her coldly, and Connie shivered from the look.

Got a call from my sister just now, Malcolm said. She said there was an incident on Main Street. Cotton got away from you.

He stood up suddenly and the slowness from the beer she expected to see wasn’t there. She could almost smell the violence and adrenaline on him.

No, no, everything was fine, Connie said, backing out of the kitchen.

Fine? Malcolm laughed. Fine enough that my sister had to tell me what a fool you looked like losing our child? Fine enough that your idiot brother just stood there and watched while my boy was almost run down? That fine to you? He cracked his knuckles. Maybe I should teach you what fine is.

Connie retreated down the hall, her baby son in her arms and her enraged husband on her heels.

Malcolm, no! she shouted as she shoved the nursery door open and hurried inside. She slammed it closed, locked it, and leaned against the thin veneer. You’re drunk! Just go to bed!

Malcolm slammed his body against the door, his fists pummeling the faux wood. "Woman! Open up and take what’s coming! You think you can embarrass me all over town like that? Do you? Do you?"

I don’t know what you’re talking about! she shouted. But she did. She saw some of the looks people had given her as she had picked up Cotton. She knew the incident would be part of the small town buzz all the next day.

"Liar! Malcolm Tennison bellowed. He threw his weight against the door over and over until the wood started to crack. You better crawl into that fantasy land you live in, woman! Because when I get in there I’m gonna bring a world of hurt down on you!"

Connie cringed with each impact. She looked about the small nursery, desperate for an escape. She considered climbing out the window, but she didn’t think she could with Cotton in her arms.

She looked down at her baby boy and kissed his forehead. Surprisingly, the child wasn’t crying, just looking up at her with wide, fearful eyes.

It’s okay, Cotton, she soothed. Daddy’ll get tired and go away soon.

But she didn’t believe that. She walked Cotton to his crib and lay him down gently. He immediately rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself up onto his feet.

Only as a last resort, she mumbled as she looked at the closet. This is a last resort.

She pulled open the doors and grabbed the dresser inside. It took her a bit of wiggling to get it away from the wall, but she did and was soon stretching her arm back behind, reaching for a specific spot.

Her hand found the small panel and she had almost worked it loose when the bedroom door shattered and Malcolm burst in, yanked her back by her hair, and dragged her from the closet.

No you don’t, witch! he shouted as he slapped her across the face.

Connie’s head rocked to the side and her lip split. A faint spray of red flew across the room and splattered Cotton’s face. Whether the boy knew what was happening or not he began to cry then and screech at the top of his lungs.

See! Malcolm yelled.

Slap.

See what you did? he shouted, angry spittle flying from his lips onto his wife’s battered face.

Slap. Slap slap. Slap slap slap. Slap.

Connie cowered in his grip, crying and begging him to stop.

You want me to stop? He didn’t. Do you? He still didn’t stop. How’s that? He laughed wickedly. Guess I ain’t gonna do that!

He slammed her against the wall as he taunted and belittled her.

Snap.

Connie’s body sagged.

Oh, gonna play dead, are you? Slap. You think you can fool me? Smack. You think…you can…fool…

Malcolm looked at the dead eyes of his wife and suddenly noticed the strange angle in which her head hung on her shoulders.

Connie? Sean whispered from the door. Malcolm? What did you do?

What the hell are you doing here? Malcolm shouted, letting his wife’s limp body fall to the floor.

Connie has my keys in her purse, Sean said, his eyes fixed on his sister’s still form. Malcolm...is she...?

You get out! Malcolm shouted. Get out of my house!

The reality of it all slammed into Sean and he felt a numbness sweep over him. His fists clenched and his body went rigid with rage.

I said get out! Malcolm roared.

Neighbors walking along the sidewalk heard the shouting, but it wasn’t anything new from the Tennison house.

What was new was when Malcolm came crashing through the front window, his face battered and almost unrecognizable. Sean stepped from the couch, over the jagged shards of glass on the sill, and landed in the flower beds over Malcolm.

You son of a bitch! he shouted. You’ll die for this!

People screamed and yelled, running for their homes. A fat woman slipped past and darted into the Tennison house unnoticed as Sean kicked Malcolm in the ribs.

I’m gonna make this hurt! Sean roared. I’m gonna drag this pain out forever!

His feet flew and soon Malcolm Tennison was spitting up blood as he tried to ward off his brother-in-law’s attack.

A police cruiser screeched around the corner and the few onlookers jumped out of the way as it ran up over the curb onto the Tennison front lawn.

He killed her! the fat woman shouted from the doorway, pointing at Sean. I saw him attack his own sister then my brother!

Sean stopped his assault and looked at Maggie Tennison.

What the hell are you talking about? Sean said. You lying—

On your knees! the sheriff’s deputy shouted, his sidearm drawn. Get on your knees, Sean!

Greg? Man, I didn’t do anything! Sean protested, pointing down at the limp form of Malcolm. This son of a—

On your knees! Now! Deputy Gregory Charles said as he slowly approached.

Shoot him! Maggie yelled from the doorway. He’s crazy! Shoot him! I saw him kill his sister!

Sean’s brain raced. He didn’t have the cleanest record. A few burglary charges when he’d turned eighteen, and an assault and battery charge just the other year from a bar fight meant he wouldn’t get the benefit of the doubt.

Maggie? Sean asked, as he got onto his knees. Why?"

The woman didn’t answer, just looked in the other direction.

Deputy Charles started to remove his cuffs from his belt as he approached, and Sean took his chance. He leapt up, ramming into the deputy’s chest, knocking him backwards onto the lawn. Sean pumped his legs and sprinted around the house into the shadows. Deputy Charles got to his feet and gave chase, but Sean was lost to the darkness, his own gift making him one with the shadows.

The deputy called it in on his radio and then turned back to the house. Inside, a one year old boy screamed at the top of his lungs, the body of his mother just feet from his crib, then the child stopped. Deputy Charles heard the sudden silence and rushed inside. When he came to the shattered door of Cotton’s nursery, he stopped cold, his eyes wide with shock.

It wasn’t the crumpled body of Connie Tennison that made him freeze, although he knew that image wouldn’t leave his mind for a very long time. No, it was the sight of the deformed man setting Cotton back into his crib.

Deputy Charles didn’t bother to tell the man to freeze or put his hands up. He’d lived in Wyattsville long enough to know a ghost when he saw one. The ghost turned around and held his finger to his sideways lips.

Shhhh, he said. He’s back asleep.

Did you…did you see what happened? Deputy Charles was able to stammer.

No, the ghost replied. I heard him cry. I had to come. The ghost looked at the body of Connie Tennison. So sad. So very sad.

He walked to the closet, and Deputy Charles gasped as he saw a hole rip open in the wall. The ghost turned to him and looked the deputy in the eye.

He’s special, the ghost said. Can you feel it?

The deputy wasn’t sure if he did, but he nodded anyway.

Good, the ghost said as he stepped through the hole.

It slammed shut, leaving the stunned deputy alone with a corpse and brain full of questions.

2

Cotton Tennison’s lungs burned and his legs ached, but he pushed through it. He’d lost his right sneaker a block back, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t stop or the Red Meat Boys would pounce on him and pummel him until he crapped his pants.

For Cotton, every Thursday was a day of worrying, waiting and looking over his shoulder. The Red Meat Boys (named because their leader, Scott Williams, was the son of Mr. Williams, the butcher at Elkin’s Grocery) for some reason had scheduled his weekly harassment for Thursdays. The rest of the week the high school freshmen were busy terrifying the other students at Wyattsville Middle and High School. Didn’t matter their ages; they were fair game. For a town of only 695, Wyattsville, Oregon sure seemed to have plenty of kids for the Red Meat Boys to harass.

Unfortunately for Cotton, he was their favorite. While he wasn’t small for fourteen, he wasn’t big enough to take on the RMBs. At least not all at once. He knew how to fight—he had plenty of practice at home—but the RMBs were ruthless.

Fortunately for Cotton, though, he had legs. Fast, fast legs. It was his gift. Whatever that meant. His father had mumbled it in a drunken sleep on the couch one night.

The banner for the annual Halloween Festival fluttered above him as he dashed between cars on Main Street, Cotton looked up briefly at the strange noise and realized the town council had decided to just duct tape the banner together instead of spending money on a new one. With the economy as it was, there had been fewer and fewer tourists each year. And a bad rating by one of the cable ghost hunting series had killed a lot of the normal tourism. One day of no activity tanked the town’s supernatural reputation.

Cotton sprinted around a beat up white truck that was parked illegally at the corner of Main and Northwest Cherry Street. He clipped his leg, but ignored the discomfort and barreled into the road again when he hit Northwest 4th Street. A small Honda barely had time to slam on the brakes and hit the horn as he dashed across 4th, doubling back to get to the shortcut that would take him behind the Wyattsville School.

I saw you, Cotton Tennison! a woman screamed. I’ll be calling your father as soon as I get home, don’t you worry!

Mrs. Lynn. The Mayor’s secretary.

Cotton knew that phone call would be made, but he didn’t care at that moment. All he cared about was getting past the high school and over to Stayton Wyatt Road. That would take him to his neighborhood and to safety. Where he was going they wouldn’t follow.

Even in a town known for hauntings, there was one house that even the bravest didn’t dare enter.

He hit the football field and ran blindly past the practicing team. The Wyattsville Crawfish were the worst football team in the league, so Cotton didn’t think his small interruption would make a difference in Friday night’s game.

We could use that speed, Tennison! Coach Mangan shouted. Cotton just kept running.

Piss ant little puke! Cab Smoke Williams shouted as Cotton ruined his route and made him miss the pass that was aimed right at his numbers. He took a huge hit from his cousin, Larry Williams, and they both slid across the muddy field, muck and grass wedging in their face masks.

Smoke was Scott’s hulking older brother and the high school’s star wide receiver. Cotton knew Scott had just added that insult to the list of reasons that Cotton needed to get a beating. The list was pretty extensive, considering Cotton had a pathological inability to keep his mouth shut. If he could figure out a way to talk back then he did.

He had the bruises and whip marks from his dad to prove it.

It was his greatest skill, after his ability to outrun anyone.

The track coach had begged him to join the team also, but a few choice words from Cotton had ended that. He didn’t like authority and he didn’t like to work, he just liked to run.

Cotton hopped the short chain-link fence that surrounded the football field and separated the high school grounds from the neighborhood beyond. He jumped at the wood fence in front of him, his arms reaching for the top as his feet skidded down the planks. He caught a hold and pulled himself up and over, falling hard into the wet grass, nearly choking to death as his backpack caught for a split second on one of the boards. He struggled for breath, but didn’t let himself stop. Stopping was pain just waiting to happen. He’d learned to keep going, keep pushing, and never stop for the pain.

He knew what was in the next yard and he yanked his remaining sneaker off as he slid across the grass in just his socks. He lowered his shoulder and aimed for two loose boards he knew were there. He slammed through the fence and tumbled into the next yard.

The barking started immediately.

Cotton threw the sneaker at the charging Rottweiler and it distracted the beast just long enough so he could get to the gate and Stayton Wyatt Road. beyond.

Crap! Cotton yelled as he hit the sidewalk and saw the Red Meat Boys only half a block behind. They hadn’t been on his ass the whole time. Nope, they had taken a different route to try to cut him off.

Cotton pumped his arms as his legs flew. He was fast. Had to be in his house. Had to be in Wyattsville. The slow didn’t last long. It was the unofficial town motto.

Cotton looked past the sweat that dripped into his eyes and saw his sanctuary at the end of the road.

The Wyatt house.

Built by the town’s founder, it stood on a small hill above the rest of the neighborhood. It had originally been erected in 1866 on a grand estate, nearly four hundred acres, but the land was slowly sold off by every successive owner until all that stood was a parcel of two acres square. No one wanted to build or buy any closer. Not with the house’s reputation.

The constant slapping of rubber behind him egged Cotton on and he dug deep for the last reserves of energy he had. Sure, Wyattsville was barely half a mile square, but it was slightly hilly and everything that wasn’t pavement or asphalt was muck or slippery, muddy grass. It took a lot out of a kid.

Dead meat, tampon! Scott Williams shouted from behind. I catch you and you’ll bleed for a month!

Tampon. Not a huge leap from Cotton. Bullies were so creative that way.

Cotton ignored the shouts that were gaining on him. He couldn’t think of words, only of the giant old house that loomed before him. He hit the weed-choked lot and felt the stickers and thorns that tore at his socks and punctured the soles of his feet. He ignored the pain. It was just pain after all. Not the worst he’d ever felt.

A blur to his right caught his eye and he realized that Scott’s number one muscle, Logan Berry (last kid to make fun of that name drank through a straw for all of Christmas break) was about to cut him off before he could get to the house. Scott was like Cotton and hadn’t hit his full growth yet. But, Logan Berry was a monster of a kid, farm stock through and through. Cotton immediately changed directions and realized he would have to go in the back way. It would be tricky, possibly deadly, but he didn’t have a choice.

He rounded the side of the house and looked for the holly tree. Once he saw it he braced himself for what needed to be done. He brought his arms in close, looked at the foundation of the house, spotted the basement window, and prayed to anything that would listen that the window wasn’t latched.

Cotton tossed his backpack ahead of him and closed his eyes as he dove.

When Scott, Logan, and the rest of the boys came around the side of the house they saw the window flap shut and all started shouting at the structure, cursing Cotton, letting him know he had better not show his face at school again. But they didn’t follow. None of them were going into the Wyatt house. No way. Huh-uh.

You’ll never make it to sophomore year, Tampon! Scott yelled. You won’t even make it to the Halloween Fest! You! Are! Dead! Meat!

The others took up the chant of dead meat as they circled the house for a few minutes before they got bored. Cotton could hear their voices fade away as they left the lot, and left him, all alone.

Alone in the Wyatt house.

3

Cotton couldn’t have been more grateful that the window was unlatched and that it hadn’t shattered on him when he dove through it. He wasn’t so happy about the six foot fall to hard packed earth, but as he told himself, for probably the hundredth time that day, it was only pain. Plus, his backpack had broken some of his fall. Some of it.

He got up on shaky legs and rubbed at his bruised arms. The way the day was going the bruises his dad gave him the night before would be quickly covered up with fresh ones from his afternoon flight. He grabbed his backpack and waited for his eyes to adjust before climbing the decrepit staircase. Each step threatened to send him tumbling back down, but he was inside the house and he knew he’d be safe.

The basement opened onto what would have been the kitchen, but had long since been gutted of any cupboards or appliances. He sighed heavily, wishing water ran from the old farm sink that hid in the corner, covered in shadow like a hunkered down creature, waiting to pounce on the first victim that came too close.

Cotton knew his way around the house like the back of his hand and his feet carried him through the dining room and into the foyer. He was about to climb the grand staircase, but the sound of crying stopped him. The hair on the back of his neck prickled and he turned about and listened.

No, Daddy, please no! a girl’s voice said from the living room, or sitting room as it would have been called when the house was built. No, Daddy, no!

Cotton peeked around the corner and saw a small girl of about eleven standing in the corner of the room. Her dress was torn and her hair was matted to her face. She looked right at him and her mouth opened wide.

"You will die too! she screamed and the force of her voice made the hair on Cotton’s forehead flutter and flap. Leave now!"

Then the blood started. Cotton stood there and watched as blood splattered the mildewed walls and trickled down in grotesque patterns. When the girl’s body fell to the floor, and the real brutality began, Cotton took a couple of steps back and turned to the staircase. The sounds of an axe whacking into flesh echoed through the house.

Nice one today, Angelina, Cotton said over his shoulder. But I told you not to start with the crying. Show yourself silent as you get hacked to bits. Screaming first will scare anyone off right away and they’d never see the blood. Blood is the show. You gotta keep them around for the show.

The whacking sound stopped.

Thanks, Cotton! the girl said from the room. Blood is the show. Got it. Will you be down later so I can run through it again?

I’ll try. I have to do my homework first, Cotton said as he ascended the staircase past the second floor, past the third floor and up towards the fourth floor attic. Many voices called out to him as he walked by empty rooms and stepped over small cracks in the flooring. He waved and smiled, saying hello to those who greeted him.

When he made it to the attic he threw his backpack down by an old roll top desk that sat next to an octagonal window that looked out over all of Wyattsville. Let me do my math and then we’ll work on the hanging from the chandelier. You almost have the sway of the corpse right.

Thanks, Cotton, Barton Carlisle said as he hung from the ceiling by his neck. I really want to get this right. I so do. Halloween is coming up and I know all the kids will be looking up at this window and I want them to see me swinging back and forth.

Don’t worry, Barton. Cotton smiled up at the ghost. You’ll nail it. Not a problem.

Barton was suddenly next to Cotton and the boy jumped, dumping his math book, pencils and calculator onto the attic floor.

Dude! Cotton snapped. Don’t do that!

Sorry.

You should be, Cotton said, but with a little less venom in his voice.

What are you working on?

Math. I already said that.

Oh. I hated arithmetic when I was a boy.

You said your dad kept you locked up here your whole childhood because of your, well, you know, Cotton said.

He looked at Barton and the apparition’s face appeared smooshed and warped. His features were all off. His eyes were too wide apart and one lid drooped down. His ears were massive and stuck straight out from his head. His mouth was twisted almost so that it went vertical instead of horizontal. Cotton had gotten used to it over the years of hanging out in the Wyatt house. But it was a face that had sent terror through many a snooping kid’s bones as they tried to sneak in on dares or threats over the decades.

Daddy kept me up here for my safety. Barton nodded. That is true. But I had tutors. I learned my numbers and my letters just like all the kids. Barton sat on the floor of the attic, his butt sorta floated through the floor boards for a moment before he solidified and thumped onto the wood. I can remember when I first learned to read. Daddy was so proud because I had just turned fifteen and he had said I would read before I came of age. He was right. Daddy was always right.

Your dad loved you, Cotton said a little sarcastically. That must have been nice.

The town hated me because I looked funny and was slow and I scared the other children, Barton nodded. But daddy loved me soooooo much! He clapped his hands together and then pressed them to his chest. I loved him too.

I’ll have to take your word on that, Cotton said. Not sure what that feeling is.

Your daddy loves you, Barton said, his head still nodding.

You’ve seen me at my worst, Cotton said as he spun around to face the ghost. You’ve seen me bloody and black and blue. He rolled up his sleeves. See? Fresh from last night. You really think that’s love?

Barton stopped nodding and looked away as tears welled in his eyes. I’m sorry, Cotton, he sniffed. I don’t understand how he does that. My daddy would never have done that.

Nope, Cotton smiled. He just locked you in the attic until he died and left you the house. Great parenting.

Barton frowned. That’s not nice. Take it back.

It’s the truth, though, right? Cotton pushed. He died and left you the house. A house you couldn’t take care of. Hell, you couldn’t take care of yourself! You died because he didn’t leave anyone to help you. Dude, you fell down the stairs and snapped your neck because you had never walked down stairs before and you were so hungry you had to go find food. That’s not a good daddy.

Barton narrowed his eyes and sniffed loudly, wiping the tears from his cheeks. You have homework. Do your homework. And then he was gone.

Cotton cursed himself and his stupid mouth. Barton! Dude, I’m sorry! I’m wrong, your dad loved you! Come back, man!

That wasn’t very nice, a young man dressed in overalls and a straw hat said. Barton really likes you. Why do you yell at him all the time?

Go away, Horace, Cotton said. I need to do my homework.

You’re a real… What’s the word? Horace said before he disappeared and the last word echoed through the room. Dick.

That’s what they tell me, Cotton sighed as he turned back to his work. That’s what the whole town tells me.

Cotton’s eyes looked out the window at the landscape that was below the Wyatt house. Wyattsville. An armpit of a town. At least that was what Cotton thought. A sweaty, hay covered armpit. He had no love for the place. Especially since the place had no love for him.

Cotton’s mouth had kept him in enough trouble that no matter how hard he tried to fit in, he just couldn’t. He’d gotten to a point in his life where the stares, glares, upturned noses, and openly turned backs didn’t really affect him much, though. Much.

He was fourteen and no matter how much he told himself that Wyattsville was filled with idiots and morons, he couldn’t help but feel a bit hurt.

Which was probably why he took out his frustrations on the only friends he had.

Cotton turned from the window and looked at his math book.

Ah, screw it, he mumbled as he shoved the book away. Barton! Barton, I’m sorry! I was being a jerk!

You were, Barton agreed, appearing in front of the window. A real A number one jerk.

My bad, B, Cotton said. I’ll try not to do it again.

Several voices erupted into phantom laughter.

What? Cotton protested. I said try.

I know, Barton smiled. I believe you will. You’re a good boy, Cotton Tennison. A very good boy. Barton tried to give Cotton a hug, but melted halfway through him. Oh, mud puddles.

No worries, B, Cotton smiled. You can give me a real hug later. I probably upset you too much for you to solidify. But that nasty cold shiver you just gave me was close enough to the real thing.

Was it?

You bet, Cotton said, holding his hands up. But I don’t need another one. Don’t want to stop my heart, now do you?

Barton put his hands to his mouth. Can I do that?

I don’t know, Cotton shrugged. But humans can only handle so much cold.

I’m human, Barton said.

Living humans, dude. That should be obvious.

Right. Living. Obvious.

Cotton looked at his homework and then at Barton. He had a test in the morning and knew he needed to get his work done and study, but he also knew Barton wouldn’t leave him alone until he helped with the hanging.

Okay, B, Cotton sighed, fifteen minutes then I have to get back to work. Deal?

Barton clapped his hands together. Oh, thank you, Cotton! I’ll get it right! I know I will. Then you can do your numbers and pass your test tomorrow.

You remembered I have a test?

Yes, Barton nodded. A test in numbers tomorrow. A paper of words on next Wednesday. A test on the sky.

Weather.

Weather. Right. I knew that. Why’d I say sky? Barton shook his head then looked longingly out the window. I get mixed up sometimes. Weather on Thursday.

I never give you enough credit, B, Cotton grinned. Sorry about that.

Cotton could almost feel the others nodding in agreement.

So. Let’s see that hanging!

The two worked on Barton’s form well past fifteen minutes. By the time he’d gotten the sag of his corpse just right and the swing timed so that it looked like he’d just been dropped through a gallows trapdoor, the sky was dark and the last rays of sunset had disappeared into the gloom that settled over Wyattsville.

Oh, man! Cotton exclaimed. I gotta get home before my dad does. If I don’t have at least a can of Spaghetti-Os on the stove he’s gonna flip out.

You need a ride? Barton asked. Down the Spooooooook Highway?

Cotton laughed at Barton trying to sound modern. A ride? Yeah, that would be great.

I’ll do it, Angelina volunteered, showing up beside Cotton.

Ah, crap! Cotton cursed. I didn’t help you. Next time?

Next time, Angelina said, holding her hand out.

Cotton took her hand. Although he couldn’t really grasp it like a real hand, the freezing chill that came off it seemed to cement his hand in place. Angelina walked him over to the corner of the attic. Cotton scooped up his book bag as they passed the desk.

Ready? Angelina asked.

Ready, Cotton said as a rip in the air formed.

The sound of a great vacuum filled the attic and Cotton took a deep breath and held it as he and Angelina stepped into the rip and onto the Spook Highway.

4

Jesus, I hate the rain, Maura Lang grumbled as she pulled into her driveway.

What? her best friend, Teeny Blanchard, asked on the other end of the cell phone.

I said, I hate the rain! Maura shouted.

Well, you live in the wrong state, chicky, Teeny laughed. You home yet?

Just pulled in, Maura said as she braced for the mad dash to the front door. I’ll call you later.

Cool, babes. Ciao!

See ya.

Maura tucked her phone into her pocket and grabbed her school bag and purse. She looked down at her skimpy cheerleading outfit and frowned.

Why couldn’t I have been born in sunny SoCal? she asked aloud just before she shoved her car door open into the torrent that had just opened up over Wyattsville. She sprinted to the front door, dodging the various sculptures and creations her mother had made, and fumbled her key into the lock. It took her a second, but she finally got it and was able to scramble inside, into the warmth and dryness of her home.

Hello? she called out as she shook the rain from her hair and plopped her bag and purse down next to the coat closet. Mom?

The house was dark and no one answered so Maura made her way into the kitchen to see what was for dinner. A plate of food and note stuck to it waited for her on the counter.

"Hey, sugar! Left this for you. Hope practice was good. I’m in Portland for the evening and will be home late. It’s