Aristotle James and the Phantom Funeral Coach

By Daniel Bautz

DO YOU BELIEVE IN GHOSTS?

It's 1987, and what starts as a regular scout trip transforms into a pulse-pounding quest for Aristotle and AJ.

Get ready for an adventure that will send shivers down your spine! Join 12-year-old Aristotle James and his trusty sidekick, AJ, his best friend and Siberia

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anatolian Press LLC
• Release date: Sep 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9781959396345

Daniel Bautz

Daniel Bautz's journey to become a chilling, thrilling author of horror adventure began in rural Ohio. His artistic origins started with his grandma teaching him to paint and inheriting drawing skills from his grandfather. While earning a living in graphic design, he attempted filmmaking with mixed success. The foray into filmmaking helped him to realize his true creative calling lay in writing.Despite hosting a podcast and pursuing filmmaking, writing emerged as his genuine passion. With the guidance of his brother, he refined his storytelling abilities. In 2022 he signed with Anatolian Press. In 2023, he achieved a significant milestone by releasing his award-winning debut novel "Life Is In The Blood," now followed by "Aristotle James and the Phantom Funeral Coach," cementing his transformation from an aspiring artist to a published author.Don't miss out and stay current on Daniel Bautz by visiting DanielBautzCTP.com and subscribing to his newsletter.More Books by Daniel BautzLife Is In The Blood

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Friday, July 24, 1987 – After Midnight

See, there’s nothing under your bed. It’s a lie. They wait under your bed.

Look, there’s nothing in the closet. Don’t believe it. They hunger in the closet.

There’s nothing outside your window. They watch you through your window.

Your parents say they aren’t real. Your parents are liars. Dark creatures count on the lies of parents. Evil needs you alone, unprotected. If someone says your fear of the dark is silly, they’re wrong. It’s not. It’s better to keep a light on. I wish I could tell you something different, that monsters aren’t real, and your parents were right. Your parents are wrong.

I’ve seen what comes out of the dark. So, it made no sense to me why I sat in the dark alone with an injured stranger deep in the woods. My hands sticky from his blood, my eyes peeled wide, watching the inky dark at the bottom of a narrow valley.

The longer we sat, the closer the evil inched, ready to swallow me whole. My throat and mouth dried out while sweat dripped down my face and back, my finger thrumming beneath the bandage with every heartbeat waiting for Brian to come back with help. Alone, me and the injured, unconscious caretaker of the campgrounds, in the middle of nowhere, waiting. Easy prey.

I wished for the company of my best friend, AJ. I knew he slept in my bed at home. Dogs weren’t allowed at camp. If AJ were here, this wouldn’t be scary. My voice cracked as the question stumbled into the night, What am I doing here?

Thursday, July 23, 1987 - Earlier

You boys all know why the camp is called Avery Hand Pass? He took a dramatic pause for us to answer. The orange glow of the campfire cast an ominous light on troop leader Barry’s chubby, whiskered face. He spellbound us with spectral yarns as the fire crackled and popped. A wish-granting monkey’s paw, legs of gold and a devil on the dance floor waltzed with the glowing ash floating up to the star-filled night sky through the tall pines. Troop leader Barry shattered the building suspense, Oh, you don’t? Well, all right, I’ll tell you. As the story goes, Emmanuel Avery was a wealthy man. That’s who this land is named after.

I whittled a thick tree branch knowing Barry’s story about some rich guy moving to Ohio before it was Ohio. My ears perked up when Barry said Native Americans had killed this guy, leaving him face down in the mud on his land at the end of the Avery Pass.

I looked around at the other boys in my troop, the warm amber glow falling on their faces and the campfire dancing in their eyes. Barry’s story breathlessly held everyone’s attention. We sat waiting for the story to get spooky.

Although Emmanuel’s family found his body, and took him back east to bury him, one part of him remained here. His hand nailed to a great oak, a warning to anyone else to stay out of their lands. Over time the tree grew around it. They say if you can find the tree, you can still see the shape of Emmanuel Avery’s hand. That’s how we got the name Avery Hand Pass, but that’s not the scary part.

He hunched down, we leaned in, and Barry started speaking in a hushed tone, Now, on every full moon, like tonight. If you find yourself on the pass around the witching hour, hide. If you start to hear the hoots…

A hoot pierced the still night. My focus shifted entirely from cutting at the stick with my knife to the woods surrounding us. Troop leader Barry’s eyes opened wide as he looked over his shoulder into the darkness like he was frightened of ghostly ears listening to what he said. He lowered his voice to a whisper, or mournful wails of the Indians you know the funeral coach is not far behind. If you see the ghostly funeral coach of Emmanuel Avery coming down the pass, better be still. If the coach driver spots you, hold your breath and don’t look, or you might find yourself carried away by the phantom funeral coach of Avery Hand Pass.

Camp Avery Hand Pass haunted? Great! I believed in ghosts, and they scared the heck out of me. Unless, my best friend, my dog, AJ was around. So, if it’s after midnight and you find yourself out in these woods, be careful. Don’t get lost, or you might catch a ride on the coach.

Ride the coach?!

HOOT!

Troop leader Barry jumped up, startling us. My knife slipped and cut one of my fingers. His barrel chest rolled out a deep rumble of a laugh, as he stood and poked the fire with a stick, sending embers glowing upwards toward the starry sky.

Ow, dang, I cut my finger, I said as a single line of blood dripped down my finger over my hand.

That’s a goocher, Brian said.

Really? I looked at Brian, my best human friend, as my blood dripped onto my green shorts. Thanks, Vern.

What happened there, Aristotle? Barry came over, taking my hand and inspecting the bloody digit. Just need some peroxide, Neosporin, and a band-aid, you’ll be fine. Let’s clean this cut up. The rest of you pick up and hit the rack.

The rest of the troop followed his instruction, dousing the fire and burying the embers, cleaning up the snacks and soda cans by flashlight. I followed Barry to the first aid kit, where he cleaned and dressed my cut.

The camp was clean, and our reward was an earlier bedtime. Totally cool with us. The sooner we hit the bunks, the sooner we could sneak out and raid the neighboring camps.

Last year during the raids, we got skunked. More specifically, Todd was sprayed by a skunk eating marshmallows smeared on his tent. We all felt terrible for him. Waking up to pee in the middle of the night and getting sprayed for scaring a hungry skunk, that’s tough. Another scout troop had snuck into our camp and put melted marshmallows on our tents. Lesson learned, protect your turf. Todd yearned for vengeance.

The troop planned every detail for a whole year after every troop meeting. After getting skunked for real last year, we knew we had to organize and protect our camp. Most, if not all troops, did not plan or defend their encampment. We aimed to take advantage of that.

I understand this all may seem odd to those who never scouted. We camped for a week in relative peace with other troops, but come Thursday night, game on. It was raid night. Although never encouraged by troop leaders, they didn’t try to stop it. It was an unspoken tradition for generations.

We all had our tasks to perform. We split into groups to attack the surrounding camps. My group, Brian and I, were putting pine needles in bunks and sleeping bags. A few troop mates planned on hanging back with water pistols filled with special ammo to protect our turf.

Last year’s raid wasn’t going to happen again. No one wants to eat alone outside the mess hall because they got skunked. So, we filled the squirt guns with pee. Just like no one wants to be butt hosed with skunk spray, no one wants to be super-soaked with whizz.

We waited in our tents with our watches synchronized for Zero hundred hours. I sat on my bunk, waiting to hear my watch beep. Brian looked at me and said, Sorry about your finger. Does it hurt?

Nah, it’s good, I shot him a confused look. Why are you sorry?

Brian looked at his feet, the crease in the roof of the tent, anywhere but at me. You know, right before you cut your finger, I was thinking... Nah, nevermind.

No, you have to tell me, you can’t start and not finish.

Well, I thought it would be cool if someone’s blood would make the Funeral Coach show up, and you cut yourself. I don’t know, I guess it’s stupid, but I feel like me thinking that made you cut your finger.

Don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault.

Thanks, Aristotle. I needed to hear that. Still, it makes me feel kind of weirded out. Like, it is a goocher.

You watch too many movies. I’m fine. I looked at the band-aid around my ring finger and the brown dots on my green shorts. Maybe, Brian was right. Do you think the Funeral Coach is real?

Not really. I think it would be cool if it was. Brian sat up on his bunk and looked at his feet. Nah. Ghosts aren’t real, just a made-up story. You don’t believe it’s real, do you?

I stared across the dark tent. It felt weird to hold back. Brian was my best friend. I didn’t want him to think I was stupid for believing, but I did. I didn’t get the chance to not believe. Ghosts were real and I knew it. I just wasn’t sure this story was true. I guess not.

Me neither. See, that’s why we’re friends. We’re smart. No one’s going to make us look stupid by getting us to believe in ghosts.

Yeah. What would make you think they’re real? I asked with hopes he’d give me some way to prove it to him.

Pictures or to see one in real life. Brian looked at this watch. Instinctively, I checked mine. Almost time.

That makes sense. A ghost photo would be cool.

Brian thought for a second and said, Yeah, we should try to get a ghost photo sometime.

Our watches beeped.

Raid Time! we said together.

Time for Mission: Skunk Vengeance to begin. One by one, we slid off our cots, slipped on our black hoodies, and slinked out underneath the back flaps of our tents. We gathered at a designated spot, took a headcount, and inventoried our supplies.

Brian and I displayed the kitchen trash bags for the pine needles. Check. Every scout handed over a roll of toilet paper. Check. The marshmallow squad showed their Zippos and bags of marshmallows. Check. We verified our flashlights and extra batteries. Check. The sentries presented arms, loaded and ready. Pee filled water guns. Check. Last, we checked our watches. 12:03:54 a.m. Check.

Time to go!

Brian and I scooped pine needles from the forest floor into our bags and followed our guideline to the first enemy camp. We crawled on our bellies until we saw the lights of our rivals cutting across the dark corridors of the pine forest. Like a herd of hyenas laughing, they tromped through the woods. Ninja skill level zero. We stayed still for a few seconds before returning to our crawl.

On the horizon, the silhouette of four tents in a line emerged. Target in sight.

We ran to the back of the first tent. Brian and I hunkered down and listened for any hint of anyone inside. Nothing. Brian, silent as a ninja, snuck to the second tent. I ducked down and shot into a tent.

Being in another scout’s tent was a minor violation of the unwritten rules of camp raids. We didn’t care. Todd needed retribution. It wasn’t until football started that the skunk stink began to fade, and there would be a reckoning.

Immersed in darkness, I turned on my flashlight to take a quick lay of the land and went to work. With as many pine needles as my hand could hold, I shoved the prickly spikes into the zipped sleeping bags. I left them at the top, knowing whatever unlucky boys climbed into those bags would spread the needles in the bag as he crawled into it.

Mission accomplished, I slipped back under the flap at the rear of the tent. I started my way to the third tent, stopping to wait for Brian in the second tent. Seconds passed, and he emerged. We looked at each other with huge smiles, and somehow managed to not burst into laughter.

We raided our first camp and snuck back down the guideline. The sentries reported no action. With all the lights bouncing out in the woods, it was a matter of time before another troop tried to raid our camp. Soon, the second group returned from smearing melted marshmallows underneath the wooden pallets of the tents. We headed for camp number two, which was twice the distance as the first one. There and back, another victory for Troop 539.

Our vigilant protectors thwarted Troop 519 in their attempt to vandalize our site. They held out on reporting their troop numbers until they discovered what the ammo in our squirt guns was. They folded and gave up the goods. We let them retreat pee-free.

Through the dark, we made it to the last camp. Five tents in total. One tent, two tents, three tents down. After exiting the third and waiting for Brian to finish tent number four, four beams of light streamed toward us. I froze to avoid detection. Brian slid out of the tent beside me. I tapped his shoulder and pointed out the approaching lights between us and our guideline.

What do we do? Brian asked.

Halt! Brian had been too loud. The other troop shined their lights right on us. Several pairs of feet pounded against the forest floor in a run toward us, Troop Number?!

RUN! I yelled.

I bolted up between the tents into the center of camp. Through countless streams of toilet paper, waving my arms around my head to protect my vision as toilet paper tried to wrap around my eyes. Breaking through the web of buttwipes, I pulled out my flashlight. Out of the most magnificent TP job ever witnessed, I rushed out into the long pathways of the tall pines.

I ran so hard and so long, not looking back. I wasn’t sure if Brian kept up or if I was still being chased. I didn’t notice the pines lining the forest change to oaks and maple. My pathways turned from straight and clear to crooked and cluttered, with undergrowth everywhere. I noticed it because I had to stop.

My lungs burned like fire, and from the looks of it, Brian’s did too. He bent over, hands on his knees, about ten feet behind me. I leaned against a tall, twisted, ancient oak looking back to see if the other scouts still followed. Much further behind, but it was clear they continued hunting us.

I counted ten lights. They fanned out to cover the maximum amount of ground and would catch up soon. Still trying to catch my breath, I managed a few words between gasps. Need to hide. Can’t keep running.

Good, me either.

Let’s try to find a good spot, I said. My light shined deeper into these older woods, finding a dense rolling fog swallowing the forest in its creeping path. The light reflected off the mist, unable to penetrate it. The fog pulsated toward us fast, but not as fast as the kids looking