#13ghostsrewrite

So, it’s been a while, but I finally finished the fifth story in my line-up! Enjoy!

Trigger Warnings: Major Character Death, Graphic Depictions of Violence.

Word Count: 4, 511

Life was perfect for Theo Jendrock. His parents were attentive but gave him space; he lived in a nice house with fashionable clothes and the latest gadgets. His older brothers were attending two of the best universities. Theo himself had some of the best grades in his high school - he was on track to becoming the valedictorian - he had been part of the student council for three years and was both the star hitter on their baseball team and the quarterback in football. Everything about him and his life was perfect, enviable to everyone who knew him or knew of him. Everything except this stupid lump of clay.

Theo glared at the gray lump in front of him, soft and malleable in some parts while hardening in others. He ran his hand across it, hoping to smooth some of the cracks. The pile cracked further, a deep line zig zagging through and chipping off a chunk. He groaned for what felt like the millionth time today.

“It needs to be wetter.”

Theo looked up at his table mate. Mollie Kain turned red under his gaze and gestured at his lump. “Water. It’s too dry. You won’t make anything out of it.” She picked up her spray bottle and handed it over. Theo mumbled a thank you and sprayed the lump, silently groaning all the while.

It shouldn’t be as hard as it was. All he was doing was making a vase or a pot or some stupid little container. It wasn’t going to be fancy, nothing like his classmates were making - not an abstract mask, or a full tea set, or whatever the hell Derrick O’Reilly was making in the far corner (probably a pair of tits) - just a dish. And yet, he had spent the last three weeks of art sculpting and re-sculpting it. Theo pursed his lips and continued to spray the lump, hoping to someone the large crack would mend itself together. 

“I-I think you’ve got enough, Theo,” Mollie said, her face still red. She gently took the spray bottle back. “Just..ah...just smooth it together. Like making empanadas.” She ran her fingers over her own sculpture, a small lion, pressing and pinching the soft clay together. 

Theo mimicked her for a minute before breathing out through his nose. It still looked like shit. He clucked his tongue and looked around the room, finally spying Sorrell by the door. “I’m gonna take a break,” he mumbled. He pushed himself away from the table and walked over to Sorrell.

It was Sorrell’s free period, a time when most seniors went to the courtyard or just off school grounds to smoke. Instead, he was here, working on his project for his independent art class, a class Ms. Barbanell created for her star pupil. 

Theo watched him for a moment, a soft smile on his face. Sorrell had not noticed him. His dreadlocks were tied up as they always were when he painted. He somehow had gotten blues and greens all over his jeans and hoodie despite only painting with warm tones today; there were smudges of orange on his brown hands, dotting him and the paintbrush like dalmatians. His warm eyes were focused on the canvas, his tongue peeking out between his lips, and his brows furrowed in concentration.

“Keep looking at it like that, and it might catch on fire.”

The corner of Sorrell’s mouth twisted up, but he did not turn around. He ran the paintbrush across the painting, a streak of canary yellow following in its path. Theo shifted. There was something about the way he gripped the brush, his utter concentration...made him think of the concentration he had when they-

“Isn’t pottery over on the other side?”

Theo blinked before falling back into an easy smile. He walked up to Sorrell, placing his head on his shoulder. His boyfriend gave him an irritated look before dipping his brush into an orange-yellow and swirling it. 

“I wanted to see what you were doing.”

“Really?” He lifted the brush, now a sunset orange and dashed it across the painting, quick and efficient. “It looks to me like you are trying to find a distraction.” 

Theo grimaced. 

“I can’t visit my boyfriend in class?” He over-encunciated the word, drawing out the “o” in boyfriend. The corner of Sorrell’s mouth twisted up, just as Theo knew it would. He loved the word, loved that using it angered people, infuriated them. He loved it even more that no one said anything once they realized the boyfriend in question was the Theo Jendrock, not only a star athlete, but the largest boy in school, far larger than most of the adults in town. It was like poking a dragon then running for cover, though Sorrell liked to see the word as a cocoon. 

“Not...not if you’re going to distract him from his work.”

Theo frowned and buried his face into the crook of his neck. “It won’t work.”

“What won’t?” Sorrell’s tone was soft, gentle. 

“The clay.”

Sorrell said nothing for a while, dipping his brush into a dark orange and swirling it on his palate.  They listened to the class chatter behind them, Ms. Barnabell quietly talking to one of the more intense art students in the farthest corner. Sorrell lifted the brush, hesitated, then raised it again, flattening it as he pulled the paint from one side of the canvas to the other. It was effortless, like the paints - their color, their configuration - flowed from Sorrell, like they were a part of him. 

“I’m sure whatever you’re making is beautiful -”

“It’s shit.”

Sorrell pursed his lips. He took a deep breath through his nose and swallowed. Theo groaned. He pulled back, turning to go back to his table. He could feel Sorrell turn around, his stiff jeans crinkling as he twisted around to - to what? Convince Theo the hideous lump was actually worth something? That it wouldn’t result in a failure? 

Theo flung himself into his seat, glaring at the pile before picking up Mollie’s spray bottle and furiously dousing it.

***

Two days later and Theo watched his class carefully put their creations into the kiln. His jaw set, and fingers clenching his….bowl, as beautiful sculpture after beautiful sculpture was placed in the kiln, Ms. Barnabell smiling fondly at them, praising a little part of their work.

“That’ll look wonderful when fired.”

“The divets are a great addition!”

“If you add the blue ombre liked we talked about, these little swirls will shine.”

“Derrick, did you spend these last few weeks making a pair of… breasts?”

While they argued about the artistic value of a woman’s tits, Mollie wiggled around them and placed her miniature lion in the kiln. She smiled down at it and slipped back into the classroom, tucking her hair behind her ear. Theo tightened his grip on his bowl. The clay folded, creasing with his fingertips. A part of him was horrified, burning up through him and causing his stomach to clench. He wanted to run back to his table and smooth over the creases, as though it would fix all the other creases and cracks and bumps; as though that one action would result in a flawless sculpture that would lead to Mrs. Barnabell falling to her knees in awe and Derrick O’Reilly to drop his fleshy breasts, flattening them. 

A much larger part of him wanted to chuck the damn thing in the kiln or better yet at the wall, splattering everything in sight with clay.

“Theo.”

Derrick had lost the argument. He stood to the side, gently jiggling the stiff clay with a crooked grin on his face, as though they would bounce like actual tits. Mrs. Barnabell smiled at Theo expectedly, and he came forward, every part of him feeling like it was on fire. 

He clenched his jaw, hearing his teeth grind, and placed it in the kiln as quickly as possible. Theo started to turn around when Mrs. Barnabell peered down and commented, “interesting approach. I’m excited to see how it will turn out.”

The fire slowly engulfing his body roared to life, flicking at his ears and neck. Theo nodded, his stomach clenching violently as he walked back to his table. Derrick opened his mouth to say something, but one jerk of Theo’s head shut him up. 

He breathed through his nose and flung himself back into his seat. His eyes hurt. His nose twitched. His stomach would not stop cramping and the fire would not stop raging, burning him and sending the hairs on his arms standing up. Theo rubbed his arms, hoping to cool it, but the motion did little.

After what seemed like forever, the last student put their sculpture in the kiln. With his chest tightening, Theo watched Ms. Barnabell sternly speak to Derrick and shut the lid.

***

Theo stood outside the school, bouncing on his toes and blowing into his cupped hands. The sun was still hiding behind the building, slowly peeking out; the start of its rays turning the sky pink as it crested the horizon. A cool fog settled across the campus, dampening the tops of Theo’s high-tops and the grass he was standing on. He clenched his jaw to prevent his teeth from chattering.

He shouldn’t be here. If the locked doors weren’t enough of a clue that he should be sleeping, the still dark sky was. And yet, here he was, tightly wrapped in his jacket, arms crossed to preserve heat. The janitors would be here soon, and they would open the doors for him. He smiled a little at that. It was easy to get what you wanted when you scored a few home runs, got a couple touchdowns, and were just liked by everyone. It didn’t hurt that his GPA was killer.

His smile disappeared as quickly as it appeared. He clenched his jaw tighter, his teeth painfully grinding together. His stomach clenched and unclenched; Theo felt like he was going to throw-up. He swallowed, trying to push those feelings down, but they remained, bubbling below the surface, like lava in a volcano.

A car pulled into the school parking lot, and Theo straightened, breaking out a toothy grin. An older man got it - Esteban he thought from the slicked-back hair and the slight limp when he walked.  His grin widened as he came closer, lugging his backpack over his shoulder.

Esteban looked at Theo then up at the sky. Theo let out a puff of laughter. “What are you doing here, man? You should be sleeping.”

“Just had some things I had to finish.”

Esteban’s eyes comically widened. “Some things to do? At four in the morning?”

Theo shrugged, his heart beating a little faster. “It was the only time I could come in.”

He nodded, then shrugged, shifting his backpack to pull out a set of keys. “You take on too much, man.” Esteban unlocked the doors and held them open for Theo. He passed him and waited for Esteban to turn off the alarm.

“Yeah,” he murmured.

***

He threw his jacket off in the corner and swiftly walked over to the supply closet. It was unlocked. Theo jerked it open, heaving the unopened hunk of clay onto his table. It thunked down, and for a moment, he thought the table would crumble. It wobbled slightly, but stayed standing. Good. He nodded at the table, then dashed around for a spray bottle, clay knife, and whatever else he could think of. A quick glance at the clock, and his heart rate increased, thudding as loudly as the clay hitting the table; his body felt like it might collapse.

Theo ripped open the bag and immediately sprayed it with lukewarm water. As soon as the clay looked soft enough, he cut off a slab, tossing it onto the table before him. He hooked a leg around the chair leg behind him and pulled it up to him. Theo sat down and rolled up his sleeves, breathing out through his mouth, and trying not to puke.

***

It still looked like shit. Theo stared at the lump in utter disbelief, his whole body feeling sore and uneasy. The sculpture was closer to that of a bowl, but it was still uneven, the rim rolling and varying in thickness. He ran a hand through his hair, smearing damp clay in it. Theo couldn’t bring himself to care. He turned the bowl slowly, looking for any redeeming quality for the hideous thing before him. The base was fine, sturdier, and the sides seemed okay. So what the hell was going on with the top?

He pressed the sides of the bowl in, folding it in on itself, before deciding against it and pulling them out, the sides falling like a blooming flower. Theo sprayed them with more water - the clay becoming slick - and started to push them back up, slowly turning the bowl and running his hands across it. By the time he had twisted the bowl around, it was back to resembling a bowl. A bowl made and designed by toddlers in a muddy patch. 

Theo stared down at it, a low rumbling in his ears. It was like being underwater, waves crashing in his eardrums. He took a deep breath and exhaled. In, out. In, out. He repeated it several times, closing his eyes. But the roaring grew louder, and his hands started to tremble. His chest tightened; every nerve felt like it was on fire, aching to be touched - no, torn apart to release the quickly building tension in his body. Theo opened his eyes and stared at the lump before him. 

“Stop it,” he murmured, clenching his hands. “Stop it. Stupid, stop. This isn’t - stop it. There’s no reason to be like this. Just stop.”

His body paid him no mind, his shaking hands reaching for the bowl - almost on autopilot - and picked it up. It had firmed up, though some patches remained slimy and wet. He held it in his hands for a moment, weighing it, his eyes critically roaming over the ugly thing. Splack!

The bowl hit the wall, flattening one side, and splattering the wall with bits of loose clay. A poster of the color wheel slid down the wall, crumbling, folding over the clay like a covered body at a crime scene. 

Theo put his shaking hands in his hair and dug his nails in. It felt good, painful. “Stop, stop, stop.” The word fell from his lips like air, but nothing changed. His chest continued to tighten, his hands shook, the roaring in his ears increased until tears pooled in his eyes and started falling down his cheeks. He inhaled and exhaled, his breathing shakier now, inhales too deep and exhales too short. Theo dug his nails into his scalp, twisting them in his hair and pulled, his nerves singing praises and crying out simultaneously -

“Theo?”

His heart thudded loudly in his chest. He imagined turning around, openingly letting his tears fall and collapsing into Sorrell’s embrace. Sorrell quietly calming him down and helping him remake his shitty bowl. Them placing it in the kiln and the instructor marveling at it.

He didn’t move.

“Babe, what are you doing here?” His jacket shuffled as he took it off - probably draped it over a chair - and came closer, his sneakers squeaking softly on the concrete floor. Theo’s back felt hot as he drew closer; his nerves were electrified and vibrating with fear. 

Sorrell stopped behind him, taking in the smashed bowl and his hunched-over boyfriend. He swallowed, opened his mouth, then closed it and swallowed again. He felt hot, his stomach twisting as he fought to get the words out.

“What...what happened?”

Theo took a deep breath and clenched his hair tighter. It was like a blanket; he needed to hold on, even if he knew it was ridiculous, he needed to. “It’s bad,” he finally said.

“What’s bad?”

He gritted his teeth and clenched his eyes. It wasn’t Sorrell’s fault. He was doing what a good boyfriend did - what he always did; he was calm, patient. He was trying to understand. And yet, his soft voice was like needles to Theo’s dark skin, igniting his nerves and putting everything on edge, coiled and ready to spring. Keeping his eyes closed, he said, “The bowl. It’s...it’s not coming out right.” His chest tightened as he said it, and he gripped his hair, digging his nails into his scalp. It calmed him somewhat.

“That’s why you’re here? To make a new one?” He wasn’t asking, but Theo nodded anyway. It was quiet for a moment. Sorrell slowly walked around Theo, squatting down in front of him. His chest ached. He knew Theo had these...moments, but he had never seen one happen. To see his strong, devil-may-care boyfriend, his defender, on his knees and almost paralyzed with fear was…there was no word for it. He swallowed and raised his hand, hesitating before placing it on Theo’s arm. Theo jerked, but didn’t open his eyes. Carefully, Sorrell laced both his hands in Theo’s and pulled his fingers from his scalp. He went quietly, smoothly, as though he had been waiting for someone to velcro his hands away from his hair. Sorrell held his hands in his, running his thumbs across his knuckles.

“Theo…” he started. He stopped, hesitant, then continued. “Babe...it’s one sculpture…”

Theo was already shaking his head. He hadn’t opened his eyes. “It’s gotta be good.”

“Why?” Theo opened his eyes and stared at the ground. He said nothing. “Is this about...what is this...you’ve already got a scholarship. You’re already salutatorian -.” He stopped. Theo’s Adam’s apple had jumped at that, a half-swallow. Sorrell’s heart broke a little more. “Babe....salutatorian...you’re the only one in the school with that recognition. That’s amazing. And with everything else you’re doing -.”

Theo shook his head. He took a deep breath, and on the exhale said, “not good enough.” Sorrell rubbed his hands firmer, staring at him. “Salutatorian….they’re the first losers...they -.”

“Who the fuck told you that?” He didn’t mean to raise his voice. Theo flinched, his eyes going wide, and Sorrell let out a breath. “Sorry, sorry. That’s just...that’s wrong, Theo. It’s amazing. You’re not...no one is like Madison Deberough or - or -.”

“Tommy Ryanger.”

“Tommy Ryanger. They don’t have sports or clubs. They just do homework, and that’s fine. What you are -.”

But Theo was shaking his head again, swallowing. His hands twitched in Sorrell’s, and he tightened his hands, fearful he would pull from him and start scratching at his scalp. “I...would be with...it’s just...this.need to be perfect…”

Sorrell’s eyes widened. Oh. “Babe...sweetheart...Barnabell wouldn’t fail you ‘cause your sculpture was - ah - it’s avant garde. This is Intro to Pottery. You tried, you did the homework, you listened. You came to class every day. You will get an A, and -.” Theo was already starting to shake his head “- it’s not a pity A. Derrick made a fine pair of tits and he’s gonna get a C at best.” The corner of Theo’s mouth lifted for a second. Sorrell’s heart jumped, and he grinned. “Maybe if he sculpted a cock and balls, he’d’ve gotten a -”

The world exploded. Fragments of wood, pottery, and linoleum blasted through the room. Smoke filled the air. Sorrell screamed. He couldn’t hear. He couldn’t breathe. Theo crushed him, curling in on him, pressing his nose to his chest. His eyes burned. It was hot. Hot. Too much. And then...quiet.

***

Westmont High closed for two days after the accident. The entire east wing of the school had collapsed; the art room, the gym, shops - all destroyed when the old kiln exploded. Firefighters found one survivor - no one else was in that side of the building. He was a mess, Sorrell Howard, sobbing and screaming incoherently. He had been trapped under his boyfriend, Westmont’s dear Theodore Jendrock. When they pulled Sorrell out, he couldn’t contain himself. He threw his body at Theo, screaming, stroking his face. His entire right side was burned, some of it blistered, most of it charcoal black. He looked like he was two different people: a blackened corpse on one side, and a scorched sleeping man on the other. Paramedics quickly bagged his body before taking him out. Sorrell screamed as they loaded Theo into a separate ambulance and refused to calm down until he was allowed to ride with him. 

The contents of the kiln - or what was left of it - were looked over to find the cause of the explosion. The kiln’s age and the broken heat dial were large factors, no doubt adding to the force of the explosion. However, the trigger was much smaller, almost overlooked. A five inch statue of what was later identified as a lion had been the final component. The kiln, already old and on the edge of retirement, had been switched to a high temperature too quickly, aggravating the air bubbles and hollow head of the lion statue, causing it to erupt, shattering the other sculptures. The force was too much for the old kiln, exploding it and the surrounding area. 

News stations latched on to the story. It was too good for them to pass up. Faulty equipment in a school, an accidental time bomb in the form of an art student’s sculpture, the death of a beloved athlete, a gay romance - it was inevitable they would descend upon the traumatized school and students, focusing on the principal, art teacher, the student who created the lion - a Mollie Kain - and the athlete’s boyfriend, Sorrell Howard. 

***

Ten Years Later

Schools liked to think they had state-of-the-art security systems, that they knew how to protect their students. Their methods relied on observant security guards and people following protocol. Walk into a school in nice clothes and a confident air, and no one bothered you. If anyone wished to harm the students of Westmont High School, they could have done so easily. As it was, a tall man in a very tight black suit, who entered the front doors and beelined for the art room, had no issues with the current students. He smiled a little as he came to the double doors leading to the art department. He paused, then opened the door and stepped inside.

School was almost out for the day. Students were eagerly watching the clock, slowly packing away their notebooks and water bottles as the second and minute hands ticked closer and closer to freedom. You would not know that from the abandoned room the man now stood in. 

For most of the day, it was filled with students, some excited to take a break from their note-taking and monotonous classes, while others were bored, wanting nothing more than to pull out their homework or play on their phones until the next bell. For the final class, however, it was dead - the man smiled a bit at that as he wandered around, his hand grazing the tables and chairs - with the only sound being the leaky faucet. The school had claimed that the lack of a final period was out of respect for the life lost ten years ago, but the students had seen through that. Anyone could see through it. The death took place before school hours, and the student in question had the class for his third period, not his sixth. Students just didn’t want to be in a room where the tragedy took place, especially one deemed haunted by their artistic peers.

The man stood in the center of the room, staring at the artwork on the walls. All of it was terribly done. But who was he to critique? Someone’s mother probably wanted to hang the acrylic work on her walls and brag to her book club about her talented young child.

He suppressed a smile and cleared his throat. “Theodore,” he called, “may I speak with you?” Silence. He waited a couple minutes before continuing. “I heard you have, ah, a great reputation with the - what’s the word? - gay students of the school; they see you as their -.”

“It’s 2018. LGBTQ or queer are both acceptable terms.”

The man held back a smile as he turned toward the door. A young black man - a teenager - had entered. He was large - taller than the man - with broad shoulders and a square jaw. He was handsome. He would have been even more handsome, magazine-worthy had the right side of his face not been blackened and charred beyond recognition. The teenager cocked his head and stared at the man, waiting for him.

The man stepped forward, stretching out his hand. “Catullus Kettlewell,” he said. The teenager cocked an eyebrow. He grinned. “Theodore Jendrock, correct?”

The teenager nodded.. He stared at Catullus for a moment. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you! I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you.”

Theo tried to hide it, but Catullus could see the way his eyes lit up, his back straightened. “Really?”

“Of course! The halls buzz with excitement - with rumors surrounding you, the beloved football player who met his fate here.” He stood up straight, grinning up at Theo, “Many of the - LGBTQ, you said? - see you as their hero, as the crusader who defends them from, ah, homophobic peers.”

Theo shrugged, his ears and neck warming. Catullus grinned. “I was thrilled to hear you were still such a charming - a good person in the afterlife. And the way Sorrell talks about you -.” Theo snapped up to look at him, his eyes wide, mouth opening slightly. 

He swallowed and blinked, trying to remain calm. “Sorrell?”

“Yes, Sorrell Howard. A local artist now. Started an organization in your name. The Theodore Jendrock Institute. They help underprivileged LGBTQ youth.”

Theo smiled, a full smile. The charred side of his face lifted, looking painful. “That sounds like something he would do.”

“Indeed.” They stood there for a moment. Catullus kept his hands in his pockets, stroking his fingers over a box. “From all the articles written about him, he hasn’t stopped thinking about you.”

Theo looked at Catullus, though his gaze was foggy. He was likely thinking back to the two of them in high school, planning their future. It didn’t look how they pictured it, but at least Sorrell was doing well. Catullus smiled in return. “It will destroy him once rumors reach him you are no longer defending the youth here.”

It took him a moment to register what Catullus had said, so caught up in his own memories. By the time he realized he wasn’t here to talk about his beloved boyfriend, it was too late. The box had been thrown and Theo was gone. Catullus smiled and picked it up, looking it over before putting it back in his pocket. He turned and left the art room, pausing only to look at a memorial plaque next to the door. He smiled and left, the final bell ringing. 

2001 13 GHOSTS VS. 2018 13 GHOSTS

Black Zodiac: A young man with a bright future who dies with injuries to the right side of his body.

2001 GHOST’S STORY

Royce Clayton was a high school star baseball player with an ego. He accepted a drag race challenge against his friend, Johnny, who cut the brake line to Royce’s car. The car crashed and Royce’s died from the ensuing fire, burning much of the right side of his body. 

2018/19 GHOST’S STORY

Theo Jendrock was a beloved high school athlete struggling with anxiety. His biggest/current hold-up was his art class, which he believed would prevent him from becoming valedictorian and achieving perfection. When he tried to fix his statue, he had an anxiety attack and was comforted by his boyfriend. As it seemed he might overcome his attack, a kiln exploded; he twisted himself to protect his boyfriend, burning most of the right side of his body. 

Leo, the Lion: The next sign is Leo, the lion. The statue that caused the explosion killing Theo was a lion. Theo’s act of selflessness could also be seen as him being “lion-hearted.”

TW: child death (fairly graphic) & swearing. 

Word Count: 5,955

 The large oak tree glowed in the early summer morning, an eerie yet familiar presence. The sun crawled over the horizon, gently bathing the suburban neighborhood in a golden-pink light, illuminating the tree and catching the morning dew on its bright green leaves. The leaves were brighter in the day; it appeared now like a curtain being lifted, the light on the stage slowly revealing something marvelous. Everything glittered and sung. It was quiet. All the more so for a day like today.

Two small faces watched the sun rise, watched as the light caught the tree and casted a magnificent dark gray shadow across their manicured lawn and the street before it. Their bright eyes, lidded with sleep but burning with bright curiosity watched a bird gently land on the tree, crow, and hop down the branch.

One of the children, eight year old Fern, leaned her forehead against the glass pane, cushioning it with her blonde bangs. She peered down the length of the tree, resting her eyes at its base where, for the past six years, a rabbit family called the twisted roots home. Her brother, Douglas, smushed his round nose against the glass, his breath turning it opaque. He couldn’t quite see over the window ledge, follow his sister’s line of sight, so he settled on gazing at the top of the tree.

He always wondered what it would be like to climb up that high. Douglas unfurled a chubby hand and rested it on the glass as if he could feel the bark under his soft skin. His mama told him he couldn’t climb yet - he was too small. But his sisters were small and they - they could climb to the top. They often did so, squealing with laughter as they climbed higher and higher, disappearing amongst the green leaves and labyrinth of branches. Douglas watched them, giggling along with their shouts of laughter and wondering when he too could climb amongst the birds and the squirrels, climb higher than all four of his sisters.

Douglas turned his face against the cool glass to look at Fern. Her eyes were still fixed on the rabbit hole.

“When do we go?” he quietly asked her.

Fern didn’t say anything. A fat crow landed next to the tree and hopped forward. It cocked its head before plunging headfirst into the soft grass. It jerked up, something slimy clutched in its damp beak. The bird turned and looked up at the children, it’s black eyes staring into their blue and hazel ones, the slimy thing squirming half-heartedly in its beak.

Fern pushed back from the window, disgusted. Douglas watched the bird for minute longer before it flew away, its prize still in its beak. His sister blinked and smoothed her hand down her pink pajamas. She seemed to register that he had said something and whispered, “when they go out.” She glanced around their room. “We need to get dressed. Come on, Dougie.”

She set about pulling clothes from the dresser, something their mama did every morning - at least for the two of them. She had done it for years, picking out her children’s clothing, and would have continued to do so until Lavender vehemently told her that she was well old enough to pick out her own outfits. It was true, so their mama resigned to helping her younger four; until Iris pitched a similar fit three days later. Now it seemed mama decided nine was the cut-off age; so long as Fern and Douglas remained under nine years old, she would choose their clothes for them. Today, however, they had important business that mama couldn’t be a part of.

Douglas rubbed his sleep-flushed face and allowed Fern to dress him in a t-shirt and shorts. She pushed her hair into a ponytail and slipped on a large sweatshirt and green shorts. Douglas yawned and turned towards the window. The tree stared back at him, glowing golden-green now that the sun had completely risen.

There was a soft, creaking throughout the house. Douglas looked back at his sister. Fern stopped and raised her eyes to the ceiling, then left and right. She leaned into her brother and whispered, “I think that’s them. Let’s go.”

She took Douglas’s hand and gently opened their bedroom door. No sound. She glanced down the hallway to their parents’ room before clutching Douglas’s hand tighter and tugging him down the hallway after her. The doors to their sisters’ rooms were ajar.

At the foot of the stairs, Fern stopped and helped Douglas put on his sneakers, before tying her own. Bright green to match her shorts; her favorite color as of late. Douglas looked out the small window on either side of the door. The glass was opaque, blurring the outdoors. He could see the tree though, a dark and welcoming site, looming solid against the golden light of the morning sun. Two smaller shapes ran around the tree, scampering like eager squirrels.

Fern finished tying her shoes and gripped Douglas’s hand before opening the front door as slowly as possible. It creaked open, gently, and the two slipped out.

Their older sisters were standing by the tree, waiting. Lavender dressed in a similar manner to Fern - though it was more like Fern was dressed in a similar manner to Lavender; Lavender had worn the same thing all summer: white shirt, jean shorts, brightly colored socks, white converse covered in sharpie squiggles, and a large hoodie she bought in Disneyland. Her hair was also in a ponytail, high and tight compared to Fern’s. She smiled as Fern and Douglas approached.

“We waited for you,” she announced, as though she deserved a medal for her rare bout of patience.

“Thank you,” Douglas whispered. His sisters ignored him.

“We wanted to make sure you came out first -” Fern began.

“Told you we’d come out when the sun came up.” Iris stood with her hands on her hips. She stared at Fern and Douglas, daring them to challenge her. Neither responded. Lavender and Iris had been clear on their plan; it was Fern’s nerves and cautious nature that led them to be late. While the oldest two girls were loud and rule breakers, Fern was always hesitant to break their parents’ trust, and remained caught in the pull between pleasing her older sisters and being “the good child” out of the five. It was easy to get lost when you were one of four girls.

That was nowhere as true than it was for Poppy, the middle Reiner child at nine years old. Even with her red curls - she was the only one of the children to inherit their mama’s hair - she faded into the mass. She was not the oldest nor the loudest; those titles went to twelve year old Lavender and ten year old Iris. She was not the youngest nor a boy - both things which set Douglas apart from the older four. Like Fern, she was there. Almost an afterthought, another girl, another failed attempt at a son.

Lavender looked up at the tree and grinned. Any patience she claimed to have had evaporated when the youngest two came out the door. She kneeled down and leaped up, like a frog, latching onto a low branch and hoisting herself up. She began climbing earnestly, grin not leaving her face. Iris climbed after her, and soon, Poppy was in the tree, although she moved much slower and cautiously than the others. Fern looked up then back down at Douglas.

“Here.” She grabbed him round the middle and stood on her tiptoes, stretching her arms and little brother out towards the nearest branch. He grabbed it and pulled himself up. Fern quickly followed suit. They continued like this for a while, trailing after the others, slowly, until the were at level with Poppy. Perhaps it was her desire to be set apart, or maybe she was tired of taking care of her brother, but Fern jumped up to the next branch without him.

Douglas looked to Poppy, sitting on the branch nearest him. She seemed to be out of it, staring down the street. Douglas scooted down his branch and followed her line of sight. There didn’t seem to be anything interesting or new. The sun was higher, the shadows from created in dawn almost all gone. Rows and rows of houses with slightly different exteriors on either side of the road; all neutral, all perfectly manicured lawns, all facing a new sidewalk. A modern take on the 1950’s wet dream.

A large black truck shattered the peaceful scape. It wasn’t so much noise as it was out of place; all the cars here were nicely tucked away in their garages. Poppy’s eyes widened and she turned to shout at the girls.

Douglas watched the truck drive closer until it was parallel with their house. The engine turned off, and he could see a silver marking on the side. He wasn’t familiar with cars, but Douglas recognized that one, a truck he had referred to as Toy Ram since he could talk. Their uncle Earl was here.

A burly blonde man jumped out of the driver’s side and slowly walked to the front door. He knocked.

“Shit, I didn’t think he’d be here this early.”

The other girls had climbed down to Douglas and Poppy’s level. Iris glared at their uncle at the door. Fern looked up at Lavender.

“Does this mean we have to get down?”

The front door opened and Rose Reiner appeared. She seemed to have expected him, as she was already dressed in a cotton blue dress and out of the overlarge Juilliard shirt she wore to bed. Mrs. Reiner grinned at Earl and gestured for him to come inside. He grinned back, scrapped his shoes on the welcome mat and followed her in. The door closed with a resounding click.

The five Reiner children looked at one another. “He’ll be in there for a while,” Lavender finally said. “We’re fine. We’ll get down when he comes back out.” She grabbed onto a branch and pulled herself up. The others quickly followed suit.

Douglas looked up. Amongst the branches, he could make out the bottoms of three sets of sneakers - Poppy’s pink vans were nowhere in sight. He looked back out at the street. A part of him wanted to sit and wait, knowing he couldn’t, shouldn’t climb without his sisters. But another part of him…

Douglas looked up again and shakily got to his feet. He held his hands out in front of him and gripped at the trunk. So rough and so big compared to his four year old hands. He ran his hand down it for a moment before shifting his feet and reaching for the nearest branch. Douglas pushed off from the trunk and jumped, hanging onto the branch before carefully pulling himself up. He sat on the branch, a grin overtaking his face. He made it. A giddy bubble rose up inside him. He climbed. Just like Poppy, and Fern, and Iris, and Lavender, he climbed. He looked up at the next branch and, with a bit more speed and assurance than before, climbed up.

It was maybe ten minutes before the front door opened again. Earl came out and made his way over to the Toy Ram. Douglas, now several feet above the ground, watched as he opened the door and pulled out a chainsaw. He leaned forward, gripping the branch to steady himself. He hadn’t seen one of those up close before, and though he was rather high in the air, it was still fascinating for the young child.

Earl walked over to the tree, pulling at a chord connected to the saw. He pulled and it roared - no, grumbled, like an irritated cat. He pulled again and again. Finally, it let out a consistent, low purr. The man adjusted his grip and began to saw through one of the low lying branches the Reiners had used to climb up.

The tree trembled and shook, leaves gently falling down, as though abandoning a sinking ship. Douglas held onto his branch tighter. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t shout out for his sisters; instead he watched, enraptured as the bright silver teeth cut into the bark over and over again, until it fell with a quiet thump. The oak suddenly felt lighter, lopsided, though whether the man really made an impact or Douglas was imagining it, he could not be sure. The man moved onto another branch. As each branch fell, Earl leaned over and picked it up before tossing it into a pile.

“Earl! Earl! Stop - stop now!”

His uncle turned around and Rose Reiner came flying out the front door, her husband not far behind her. Cormac, a blonde man well over six foot five, followed Rose at a much slower pace, like he was approaching a frightened animal.

Rose looked frantic, her red hair frazzled and blue eyes bulging. She pointed up at the tree. “The kids - the kids aren’t in their beds, they - fuck, they’re up there!”

Earl looked up, eyes wide. He pulled the chainsaw chord and the purring came to a halt. Cormac stood beside him and shouted, “What in God’s Hell are you doing up there?”

There was silence. Iris poked her head out of the mess of branches, several feet above Douglas and looked down at their parents. “We...we wanted to climb the tree before you -.”

“Get down.”

Cormac’s voice left no room for arguing. Grumbling, Iris popped back into the tree. Everything shook as she scampered back down. As she jumped from branch to branch, Fern, Poppy, and Lavender followed.

“Shit, Mac, I had no idea -.”

“Why would you?” he asked Earl. “Most kids are smart enough to stay the fuck away from the tree being cut down.”

Iris hopped down and dragged herself over to their parents and Earl.

“Who’s idea was this?” Rose asked. Her eyes were still wide, less wild and burning now with fury. Fern and Lavender landed on the ground. The younger two pursed their lips together, unsure of who they were more frightened of - their parents or their older sister.

Lavender bit her lip and rubbed her hand against her thigh. The action caught mama’s attention. “You?” she asked. “Lavender Mae, I -.”

“Where are the other two?”

The group turned back towards the tree. Douglas turned and followed their trajectory. Poppy had come closer to him, looking hesitant.

“Up here, dad,” she called out. Her eyes were firmly on Douglas; she didn’t seem to blink and Douglas found that he could not look away.

“Why are you still up there? Get down!”

“Dad...Dougie’s up here too.”

The adults had not been expecting that. Why would they assume the four year old was in the tree, let alone ten feet off the ground. They rushed to the oak, crowding around the base. Rose put her hand on her mouth, fear returning into her eyes and her face paling. Cormac and Earl looked lost for words.

Douglas waved, “Hi.” His voice was hoarse and quiet. He kicked his feet a little, unsure of how to take all the eyes on him.

“How…?”

“Did you…?”

“He wanted up!” Iris looked desperate. “He wanted to know what we were talking about, so we told him and then -.”

“-Then he said he wanted to come and climb too, and we thought he would tell -” Lavender explained.

“-I didn’t want to leave him alone, so I gave him a boost, but then Lav and Ris were getting really high, and I wanted to too, so then -.” Fern added, tugging at Rose’s dress.

Rose did not pay her daughter attention. “Get him down, Mac,” she whispered. Her eyes had not left her youngest child. “Get him down.”

Cormac stepped forward, his brother echoing his movement, stretching their large hands towards the tree. Poppy moved closer to her brother, her hand out.

“Dougie,” she whispered. He looked at her. “Dougie, let me help you down -.”

“No!” Cormac shouted over her. His eyes were large and round, scared. Douglas didn’t like that. “Dougie, just jump into daddy’s arms; I’ll catch you.”

Douglas looked at his dad and uncle, their arms out as though they were praying. He looked at his mama standing just to the side of them, hands shaking and eyes bulging. He looked at three of his sisters, who in turn looked back at him with a mixture of awe and fear, finally realizing that taking their baby brother up the tree was not the best idea. He turned to Poppy, her hand still out towards him, her expression oddly calm. Mama and daddy wanted him down, he understood that. What he didn’t understand is why he needed help. The others didn’t, and he didn’t either. He even climbed several branches himself.

Douglas rose onto shaky feet, one hand balancing against the tree truck. He fingered the bark for just a moment and jumped to the left.

Crunching. Warm. Screaming. High screams and frantic shouting. Warm. Warm down his nose and lips. Red. Red dripping.

Douglas reached a hand out and petted the branch in front of him. Oh. It was turning red too, red like…

Someone pulled him off while a door slammed. Screaming. Shouting from Earl. Crying. Something wet on his face - rain. Dropping onto his damp face. Yucky. It was gross.

***

The ambulance came six minutes later. By that point, there was not much they could do. Douglas Cormac Reiner stopped breathing a minute after he jumped and fell into the pile of tree limbs he uncle had taken down. Even if he had survived the jump, he had a broken leg, twisted ankle, and a couple broken ribs. That would have been preferable, no doubt, to the sight of the four year old child knelt over the pile, a branch piercing his skull, blood dripping steadily down his face and onto the debris, his bright hazel eyes quickly dulling. A broken child would have been a million times better than a dead one.

***

48 Years Later

The doorbell rang and Daisy answered. A tall man stood in the doorway. His clothes were dark, unusually so; the tailored suit, collared shirt, tie, and shoes were oddly the same shade of black, but looked like they belonged on a goth twenty-something year old in the early 2000s. He looked to be in his fifties at least, with a gray speckled beard, crow’s feet and laugh lines.

“Hello?” Daisy asked.

“Hello. I’m looking for a Mrs. Reiner-MacCready?”

“Which one?”

“Come again?”

Daisy sighed. She hated this question. It might have been entertaining when she was a child, but now it was just irritating. It was 2018 - why did people seem shocked when she asked them to clarify?

“Which Mrs. Reiner-MacCready? Poppy or Rachel?”

“Ah.” The man raised his eyebrows. His lips quirked. She didn’t like that look, smug. He had no right to look that way when he didn’t even know her mothers shared the same name. “Poppy.”

“She’s in the dining room.”

“May I see her?”

“Who are you?”

He laughed. It was unnerving, quiet, like a joke made at her expense. Daisy didn’t like him. She looked at the door, wondering how much of a dick she would look like if she just shut him out.

“My name...I’m Clyde Bartlett; I work with your mother, Poppy.”

Daisy looked at him. She remembered the name, but couldn’t place where she heard it. On a nametag at the pharmacy her mom worked at? Or over the loudspeaker at Charlie’s Hardware, where her mama ran the register? Hell, it could have been the name of one of the parents at her parent-teacher conferences - with nearly thirty excitable children to keep track of, each with their own complaints and grievances, she had difficulty matching the names of the parents to the child. Faces were easy - names not so much. However, Ryker hired all sorts of weird people at the hardware store, and like Daisy, her mama didn’t have a good memory - mostly. It wouldn’t have surprised Daisy if her mama had invited Clyde over and forgot.

“Okay,” she said finally. She opened the door a little wider, allowing the man - Clyde - to slide passed her. Daisy shut the door and led him down the hall into the dining room.

Poppy’s childhood home looked much the same as it did growing up. Wood floors scuffed with shoes of too many children; heavy, dated furniture lining the walls - everything lined up perfectly with the walls and baseboards. She and her wife had made several minor changes - taking off the garish wallpaper and painting the walls bright gray, exchanging the old oak furniture for vintage maple finds, replacing all the appliances - but it still felt like the home she grew up in. Modern but nostalgic.

The dining room was much the same, functioning as Poppy’s library then and now. White maple bookshelves stood against the walls, facing the arched doorway. A rainbow of books crowded the shelves, the only bright color in the room, save for Poppy’s dulling red hair. Rachel thought flags were tacky and juvenile, but a rainbow bookshelf was fairly subtle and pleasing to the eye.

Poppy sat at the head of the table, cradling a small green book. She preferred to read sitting up, back straight in a chair like her father; she blamed it on a bad back. Her hair was pulled up in a bun, looking strikingly like her mother, albeit in a hideous gray sweater with a cartoonish black cat on it. Rose Reiner had prefered simple dresses and blouses until the day she passed.

Daisy stood in the archway and knocked on the wall. “Mama?”

Poppy looked up. Her glasses were down her nose.

“Co-worker’s here.”

She stared, blinking at Daisy and the man.

“Clyde Bartlett?”

For a moment, she looked confused, then nodded. Daisy gestured for him to enter, while Poppy set her book aside and fixed her glasses. Clyde sat to Poppy’s left, and Daisy, after a moment’s hesitation, turned down the hall.

Poppy swallowed then said, “Clyde’s a ginger.”

Clyde laughed quietly. “I didn’t like the look. Dyed it.”

She stared, brows furrowing. Did Clyde dye his hair? She couldn’t remember. The man grinned, unnerving, eiery. He shifted in his seat to face her.

“I was on the internet - just looking around - and I came across a few posts about you, Mrs. Reiner-MacCready. Or, rather, I found a few posts about this house, claiming it’s haunted.”

Poppy sat back further in her chair, eyebrows steadily raising. Her shoulders remained stiff and straight. “What do you know about this house?”

“Not much,” he admitted. “The posts were not clear. They claimed there was a ghost stalking this home, but no more.”

“He doesn't ‘stalk’ the house. He lives here.”

Clyde’s lip twisted up. Poppy didn’t say anything.

“You know the ghost?”

“I live here. Of course I know the ghost.”

“You don’t seem frightened.”

“Ghosts aren’t scary - they’re sad. They want to move on but are trapped.” Poppy pushed her glasses impossibly higher on her nose. She hesitated before continuing, “and it’s hard to be scared of a child.”

The man’s grin widened. He leaned in slightly, his expression eager. Poppy looked back. That wasn’t the usual response she got when she talked about ghosts, let alone when she mentioned the ghost was a child. Usually she was written off as insane, an old lady stuck in the past - why else would she move back into her childhood home where tragedy had befallen her family? Clyde was a weird man.

“You...you sound kind,” Clyde said slowly as though he was thinking about his words, “like you know the ghost...intimately.”

“Yes.” Poppy felt she should leave it at that, but something was pulling her to keep talking. She hadn’t talked about him in years; her grandson loved the stories, but her daughter and wife...they thought she was crazy. She had learned to only confide her encounters with the ghost to her darling Clem. And while it was better than being left to her own thoughts, questioning whether or not she really had talked with a ghost, saying this to an adult, one who didn’t recoil or sigh at the mention of the entity, was refreshing, and she found herself eager to tell more.

She shifted in her seat, back remaining upright. “He...he was my brother, my baby, well, my only brother. He died when I was nine. We had an oak tree, and we - our sisters thought it would be fun to climb it before our uncle cut it down. He was brought up - I don’t remember which one of us thought it would be smart to do. We got caught, but not before Uncle Earl had sawed off a few branches. We all jumped and tried to help, but…” Those hazel eyes staring at her, large and earnest. Curious and driven. She could see it, even now, nearly fifty years later, the wheels turning in his mind, thinking about his sisters and how they jumped, and she saw how the temptation was just too great, and - Poppy closed her eyes. “He jumped into the branches and hurt himself.” Her throat tightened and she took a deep breath.

“How?”

Her eyes flew open. Pushing passed her clogged throat, she asked, “what do you mean ‘how?’ He fell into the fucking branches and got stabbed in the head. And there was nothing I could do. Dad grabbed him and tried to pull him off - mama ran inside - everyone was screaming - I...I tried to jump and get him, but Earl held me.” Tears gathered in her eyes. She tried to blink them away, but it broke the dam; she allowed tears to fall down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Clyde said. He did look apologetic. “I shouldn’t have pushed you. I was just...curious. Ghosts are fascinating to me, as you know, and the prospect of one being in my hometown...once you said he was your brother I should have dropped it.” He was silent for a moment. Then he continued, “it must have been hard for your family.”

Poppy wiped her eyes on her sleeve and let out a choked laugh. He really cared about her limits, didn’t he? She might have to bring this up with Ryker. Or not. Honestly, she might forget by this evening. And even if she did remember come tomorrow, she probably wouldn’t bring it up, not wanting to cause trouble. “Yes,” she said simply. She had no desire to talk about the rest of her family. Dougie was one thing; a constant presence in the house, a pressure on her mind, like a migrane, and talking to someone was taking medication and laying in a dark room - soothing. Her family was more the bright light and loud noises that irritated the migraine and caused your skin to crawl.

It hurt more to talk of the emotional pain then the look on Dougie’s face when he fell. How her mama became almost catatonic for years before seeking psychiatric help, and even then, the medicine and therapy only seemed to give her a mask, a plastic smile she would place over her set-frown and take off before bed. How her dad buried himself in work before he too broke down, gave up his position at the construction company, and started drinking. How Lavender, wracked with guilt throughout her childhood shut down and shut up, going through the motions of adolescence, but finding no joy until she left home and found a psychiatrist who reminded her every session that she was just a child when it happened, and she was finally able to move on. How Iris, the most like their father, signed up for every sports team, put her anger and sadness into each throw, push, shove in every sport, succeeding and earning scholarships, while looking empty and blank. How Fern cycled through people - friends, colleagues, boyfriends - thinking she was not good enough. How it took all four sisters three decades before they managed to come up with something useful to do with their grief, and started planting trees and bushes and flowers on grave sites and in parks. How their dad started to wean off drinking to help, when it finally caught up with him and he passed, their mother soon after.

How none of them allowed their children to climb trees or even play near them.

Poppy swallowed and looked at Clyde. She felt tired, full of emotion like a popcorn bag in the microwave. “Can I help you with anything else?”

The man shook his head. “No. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

Poppy felt as though she should have replied but she couldn’t think of what to say.

“May I use your restroom and then I’ll be on my way?”

She looked at him for a minute, then sniffed. She pointed through the arch. “Down the hall to your left. I’d show you myself, but…” Poppy looked down at her chair. A leg injury from several years ago left her using a cane, now propped against the side of the chair. The man nodded and stood. He walked out the room, while she grabbed a Kleenex and wiped her nose, tossing the used tissue in a nearby wastebasket.

•••

She should have followed him. Most people would have followed him. A strange man in their house, one that insists on talking about ghosts and a - pardon the pun - haunting past is not a man to be left alone. But the thing about dredging up the past is it puts a strain on the rememberer. It’s hard to be rational when you relive the trauma; it is why psychologist had such an easy time manipulating their patients to believe them to be correct. When you are emotionally vulnerable, you’ll believe anything, including the good intentions in others.

Clyde walked down the hall before veering right and climbing up the staircase, careful to avoid the squeaky tenth step. The internet had not mentioned the two Mrs. Reiner-MacCreadys, nor had any of their friends and coworkers he “accidentally” bumped into, though one of the grandson’s friends had mentioned the step when asked about playing at the house. Children were wonderfully useful.  

Daisy was downstairs in the kitchen, trying to clean and reconcile with her eavesdropping on their conversation. Rachel Reiner-MacCready was still at work. The only one upstairs would be the grandson, Clematis, and the ghost.

He heard giggling and peered into a bedroom, the door cracked slightly. A young brunette boy was reading a picture book to himself, tracing fat fingers over the bold lettering. His fingers stayed on the page too long and his eyes were focused on the pictures rather than the words; he was making up his own stories. A smile quirked his mouth. A funny story then. Or at least funny to a four year old. Clyde turned to continue down the hallway but stopped.

A little boy stared at him, his head cocked.

He looked remarkably like the boy in the bedroom. Dye his hair brown, give him a few freckles, and they could have been twins. His clothes were clean, and were it not for the hole in the middle of his forehead, Clyde would have thought his research had failed him and that Daisy did have another child running around.

Clyde pulled his trousers up around his knees and kneeled down. The boy didn’t come towards him, cocking his head to the other side.

“Hello,” Clyde said quietly. He reached his hand into his pocket and fingered the box gently. “Are you...are you Douglas Reiner?”

The boy’s eyebrows creased. “Who are you?”

“A friend of your sister’s...Clyde Bartlett.”

He nodded as though the name meant something. Clyde’s lips twisted up briefly. He was reminded of a 1990 TV show; the show was unremarkable except for the opening scene, where a young boy - just a couple years older than Douglas - refused to speak to the clown hiding in the sewer until he had learned his name, the clown remarking that it was very wise to not speak to strangers, but now that they were no longer strangers…

“How do you know my sister?”

“We work together, Douglas.” Clyde tilted his head. “Are you looking for something?”

“Not right now.”

“Really?” he asked gently. “Then why are you here?”

Douglas looked confused for a moment. He scrunched up his mouth and looked at his feet. “I don’t know,” he confessed. He scuffed his shoe along the wood floor. “Everyone was sad, and then I woke up.”

“Do you know why they were sad?”

He nodded solemnly. “The bad thing.”

“The bad thing?”

“Mama and daddy called it the bad thing. When...when I fell.”

“Ah.” Clyde shifted on his knees. “Do you miss your mama and daddy?”

Douglas nodded. “Yeah.” He bit his lip. “They were sad, they were all sad. Mama was the saddest. I think...daddy was next and then the girls were sad too.”

“Is that why you stayed?” Clyde asked. “You wanted to make mama happy again?”

“All of them. I wanted to make all of them happy.”

“And how did that turn out?” He looked confused. Clyde tried again, “Did you make them happy when you came back?” Silence. Douglas looked less confused, but now he looked distraught, his large hazel eyes turned on Clyde pitifully. “Is Poppy happy?”

“I tried to -” he insisted, “I tried to fix it, but only Pop and Fern could see, and then they told Fern that it was her mind playing jokes and then Pop still talked to me, and - and Clem talks and sees me and he’s happy!”

“But your sisters aren’t. And neither are your mama and daddy.”

Douglas sniffed. If he were alive, he would probably be crying. Clyde leaned in. “What if I told you...I could help you make everyone happy?”

He looked at him, hopeful. “How?”

“I’ll take you to your mama. She’ll be happy to see you free - away from here.” Most ghosts didn’t believe that; they were cynical and bitter towards anyone and everyone, and refused to believe that some living body had their best interests at heart. Child ghosts, especially ones as young as Douglas Reiner, were much more...pliable.

Douglas hesitated before nodding. “Okay.” He came forward and took Clyde’s hand. It wasn’t solid like flesh, but it wasn’t air either; it was something in between like a spider’s silk or cotton candy. Something gently existing in this plane.

Clyde held his hand and began leading him downstairs.

“Where are you taking him?”

He turned his head to the bedroom door. Clematis stood there, his eyebrows furrowed much like his mother and uncle.

Clyde nodded to Douglas. “Home.”

“To see Mama,” Douglas explained.

They continued downstairs, bypassing the archway to the dining room and leaving through the front door. Clyde could hear a shout - “Why is he taking Uncle Dougie? Gamma, why is he taking Dougie?”- and scrambling in the house. He gripped the box tightly in his pocket and tossed it at the child ghost. Douglas looked up at him in shock, trust shattering on his pale innocent face, and an ugly look coming across his eyes as he disappeared into the box. Clyde picked it up and quickly walked to his car.

By the time Poppy had come to the front door, clutching the frame and panting, he was gone. She collapsed to the ground, sobbing, her daughter and grandson confused and clutching her.

2001 13 GHOSTS VS. 2018 13 GHOSTS

Black Zodiac: First Born Son is the ghost of a young boy who died due to a head injury. 

Billy Michaels, a young boy around seven years old - maybe younger - died after a game of Cowboys and Indians gone wrong. He had been obsessed with the game and possibly a show by the same name. One of his friends found their dad’s steel-tipped arrows. He convinced Billy to play with him, and Billy, believing his guns would protect him, agreed. In life, Billy had been an angry child, determined to get his way. 

Douglas Reiner was only four years old when he fell off an oak tree and into a pile of tree branches. He had been a kind and curious child, but that didn’t stop the man - Clyde in this story - from taking him. 

So I recently discovered the movie “13 Ghosts,” and I am infatuated. It looks terrible, but the ghosts are incredibly designed - I guess the people who did the effects went on to work on “Thor: Ragnarok,” which is cool. The ghosts seem to be everyone’s favorite part of the movie, and I have to admit they are cool. I went a little deeper into the mythos surrounding the ghosts, and thought it would be really cool to rewrite the stories surrounding the ghosts. Think of this as a writer’s version of #inktober, except there are only thirteen short stories instead of thirty-one pictures because I could not in a million years write and edit thirty-one stories in the span of a month - especially since I’m starting a week late! SO - here are the rules I’ve set up for myself: 

1) Each story must be titled after the ghost.

2) Each ghost must correspond with the Black Zodiac as closely as possible, while staying far away from the original origin stories.

3) Thirteen stories within the month of October. There will be no particular schedule, though I will post 3-4 each week, starting this week, October 7th.

4) The 13 Ghosts wiki states the First Born Son corresponds with Aires in the traditional zodiac. Based on that, each story - with the exception of the thirteenth - will include the zodiac in some way, shape, or form. This may be subtle or obvious, but it will be there.

5) At the end of each story, I will compare both the ghost I wrote about and the corresponding ghost from the movie.